Tramps and Thieves
by Brunette
Summary: Gretchen didn't want to go to Hamunaptra. She didn't even want to leave Cairo. But circumstances have thrown a rather worthless, selfish prostitute into the climactic clash of events during Imhotep's first resurrection.
1. Cairo's Harlot

_Author's Note: So, every time I see a story that retells_ The Mummy _with a new character in it, I get excited. There are so many possibilities there -- what can happen differently, what can be percieved differently, what the canon characters can do differently. And yet, virtually every time, I'm disappointed with another droning narrative featuring copy-and-paste dialogue segments from the script. Seriously, with all an author could do -- they usually just paste through the meat of the story so that their character can inevitably get to meet and fall in love with Ardeth. Honestly, I have no problem with Ardeth/OC stories. I really don't even have a problem with OC stories. I just wish someone would take the time to make the whole thing interesting, different, and unique. We've already seen the movie; why don't you show us the events in another way? Well, I've decided I can't wait forever on someone else to write the perfect_ Mummy _story for me to get caught up in, so I guess I'm going to have to give it a try myself. This really isn't a rant on other authors. It's more a realization of -- "How 'bout, instead of complaining, you do something for yourself?" And that's what I'm doing._

_**Revision Notes:** I think it's worth noting that this story has been revised. Though the first half remains virtually untouched (with the exception of a few grammatical and word choice errors), the second half (roughly, from Chapter 15 on) contains major and minor character and plot tweakings. I think the changes serve to develope Gretchen's character and make the plot generally more interesting. I should also add that I could not have done the revision without the help and critique of Nakhti. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own_ The Mummy_. The story and characters belong to Stephen Summers and Universal Studios. Gretchen is my own invention...and I guess Ghazi is, too. Really impressive, I know. _

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**TRAMPS AND THIEVES**

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"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?"  
_Fyor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment_

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**Cairo's Harlot**

She pulled herself from the sagging mattress difficultly, fighting the thin fabric that clung to her moist skin. Her bony, dusty feet found the floor, and something skittered away from her toes in a hurry. She stood, lifting the limp brown locks from her neck in the vain hope that a breeze might drift from the window over the nape of her neck. She had no such luck. The darkness suffocated her almost as closely as the heat did, but she knew her way about the room very well, and this route best of all.

She staggered to the window dazedly, her stomach giving sickening orders to be there soon if she didn't want a mess to clean up in the morning. Her long, bone-like fingers grasped the sill gratefully just as her throat contracted with bile. Leaning far out of the window, she vomited. One hand ventured quickly to her hair as an afterthought, pulling the damp tresses from her face as she wretched again. Her body trembled, and a cough rattled out of her throat as she straightened her stance. With the back of her hand, she wiped off a small trace of spittle that had clung to her lip, and stood there, staring out into the night. A vagabond cloud unwillingly released it's desperate hold on the moon, and a sparkling, silvered light glowed into the dirty little room. She looked down, and watched the little nocturnal fauna of her home skatter from the shimmering thread of lunar illumination. Her eyes turned to the long mirror standing just in reach of the soft beam, and she frowned at her own reflection. She wondered why she even wanted that mirror. With the money that Englishman left, she could have bought a great many things, and she bought an enormous mirror. Why? The reflection hadn't improved any.

Usually, she didn't look at herself at this time. She didn't examine herself when there was nothing to cover her lesser attributes. Her ribs were showing. She didn't care much for that. And there was a bruise...no, her fingers found on contact. That was dirt. She would have to take some of this night's earnings for a bath. She had put it off too long. It was no wonder the only man she could snag was a skinny little thief not unlike herself.

She walked over to her rouge cabinet and opened the door. She was tempted to swallow a little of that whiskey she kept around for cuts or difficult times, but opted instead for that vile mint stuff that one doctor or another had recommended to keep her teeth from rotting. As often as she vomitted, they said, her teeth wouldn't be much use when her esopha--_esoph_...when that tube in her throat gave out, but she argued that no one would be looking at her innards. She choked down a little of her antedote, even though she was told only to swish it, not to swallow. She supposed she wouldn't be in this state if she had never _swallowed_ in the first place, but then that was life, and one mistake made habit for another.

With a grimace, she stood, running her tongue over her teeth to fight off some of that horrid flavor that stuck to her mouth and burned her throat. She crossed the room to the bed and laid down again. Just as her eyes began to close in preparation for a little sleep, an arm slung across her stomach and pulled her against the body beside her. It was too damned hot to be so close to someone--least of all someone she only vaguely knew and could just barely tolerate. He filled her nostrils with the acrid stench of sweat and the usual grime, and she wondered how she was expected to breathe, much less sleep through this night.

It was too hot for a desert night. In the three? Five. In the five years she'd been in Cairo, she'd never known the night to be so hot, nor the air to be so heavy. Surely it wouldn't rain. She'd never seen it rain here before.

She could feel his breath on the side of her face, slow and measured and peaceful. He slept, at least. She tried to close her eyes, but her eyelids seemed to itch with the want to remain open. She stared into the darkness for a very long time, her thoughts racing from one point to the next, and taking on memories that she may dwell on or may not. Too many of them went sour with pain, so she simply changed her mind to suit another musing, until it should find fault with her and cause her to hurt.

She wondered, vaguely, when it was she would die. She could feel her hip boring sharply into the mattress, and her ribs against her elbow. She figured she was too skinny to be pretty any more, and her eyes were probably too lifeless to convey honest emotion. She coughed, and mused over the time when that tube in her throat would give out, and what would happen then. She figured she would starve to death before gaining the satisfaction of knowing.

She had lost her appetite for most things. When she ate, she ate very little, because the feel of food between her teeth and the ground mill on her tongue set her ill at ease. She would choke down what she could, and lay down to sleep so that she would not vomit it up. And she wondered what sort of life this was, and if this was normal. It wasn't likely, even for a prostitute. Surely the callgirls in France lived more comfortably than this. She had given up on France some time ago. Most of the Legionaires had convinced her of that.

She hadn't seen a Legionaire in some time. Well, up until a week ago or so. She had entertained a brawny American with the most endearing blue eyes. He was a Legionaire, or said he was. He didn't seem the type to say such a thing to appear more dashing. He had a sort of...a sort of charm that comes directly from not knowing what dashing is. Something Irish ... O'Connell. His name was O'Connell. He was not the first O'Connell she had run into, but he was the first real American with the name, and he had intrigued her for the span of that night. She hadn't really thought about him since, until then. Something in her wondered if he'd be back again.

This man now...the one with his arm about her waist--he was a Legionaire, too, he said. But she was somewhat familiar with him, and he said a lot of things. He was most certainly the type to say something like that to appear charming. He hadn't been born with any charm. He had a face like a weasel and a body like a disease, but then she probably possessed these things as well. She hadn't always been this way. But it had been long enough to feel like it.

Her mind wandered aimlessly back to the Englishman. The drunkard that had left enough for her mirror. That was over a year ago, and she'd only seen him once or twice since. It would be her luck that rich, drunken Englishmen would only visit her once. She wished vaguely that he would come see her again, if only for his money's sake.

The morning light was stretching through the window, and doubling its strength in the reflection of the mirror. She threw the man's arm off of her suddenly, hoping to send him out and gain herself an hour or so of sleep.

"Wake up, johnny, it's time to go home."

His eyelids lifted heavily to stare at her in a threatening, cold shard of icy blue steel. His gaze wandered darkly to the early dawn, and came to rest on her face again.

_"Menj a pokolba,"_ he retorted, closing his eyes again. "I'm sleeping until noon."

His jolting, squeaking English jerked a frown on her face, but she'd rather he try his hand at her language then to mutter nonsense in Yiddish.

"Not here, you ain't."

His eyelids lifted again, and he glared back at her. "You're a whore, right?"

She met his glare evenly. "For last night, I better be."

He was too tired and hung over to assume insult. "And when a man pays for a girl until noon, he's in the room until noon, is he not?"

For whatever reason, foreign pronunciation of English irritated her to no end.

"Yes," she answered shortly, running her fingers through her hair. He may have smiled, if it were the right time of day.

"Good. Then I'm sleeping. Now if you'd kindly shut the hell up, I won't bother you anymore."

She ran her tongue over her lip and settled herself in bed, her cause defeated. Plaintively, she retorted, "Just...don't touch me, then. So I can sleep."

He was far beyond irritation. He simply lacked the energy to act upon it. "If I bought you until noon, I'll touch you if I want to until noon."

She let out a sigh, cursing her big, stupid mouth as his arm snaked around her waist for the sake of malice. One of his necklaces was boring sharply into her spine. She didn't say anything this time. She would wait until noon, and demand extra.


	2. London's Playboy

**London's Playboy**

"Love, you're just beautiful!"

"And you're just broke," she retorted darkly, her throat throwing her into a convulsion of coughing. Another morning. Another man. And, from the looks of it, another day without breakfast.

The Englishman jittered his foot pensively before jerking as if with sudden thought. "Oh, broke is such a _nasty_ word..."

Her eyes were yellowed, and bloodshot. Some old wife or another had said she wasn't getting enough red meat. She turned her gaze manevolently to his, silencing him with a glare. She cleared her throat hoarsely, feeling the tickle of another coughing spell against the roof of her mouth. She cleared her throat again, saving it for another time.

"Nasty word?" she whispered difficultly. "How about 'starving'? Or 'dying'? Or 'whore'?"

He winced slightly. "Oh, those are some nasty words, aren't they?"

She snorted, allowing herself to fall back against the mattress. Some joint was aching horridly in her back. She could feel his thoughtful eyes running over her a moment; could sense the guilty grimace that jerked the corner of his mouth. He was comparably sympthatic, when one considered the other men who paid her. And maybe all this would amount to something. She knew was a pathetic case; if not for her white skin, her hourly rate would be considerably cheaper.

Finally, "Well, how about this?"

_"Jonathan..."_ she groaned, allowing her eyelids to fall over her gaze.

"No, really, love. Just give it a shot. Sit up now--" His hand enclosed her wrist and drug her to a sitting position. She stared at him blankly. "There's a good girl. Now. How about you hold onto this as a sort of...leverage."

Carefully, he withdrew an octogonal box engraved with hieroglyphs and apparently wrought of ancient gold. Almost reluctantly, he placed the heavy trinket in her palm. Her eyes glanced over the article, unimpressed.

"What the hell is it?" she demanded darkly, prepared to heave it across the room should he try to play pawner.

Jonathan exaggerated a shrug. "How should I know? It's just...heavy, and...and shiny...and I should like to have it back some day."

Her lazy eyes lifted to his. Had she the energy, she would have scowled. "And how does this buy me breakfast?"

"Well I should think it wouldn't, since you're keeping it for me while I get you your money."

None of this appeared to be registering any understanding in her, so she resolved to stare at him blankly until he explained himself. With an exasperated sigh, the Englishman tipped her chin so that he could look her squarely in the eye.

"I'm leaving to get money. To pay you. And just so you know that I'm not trying to trick you, I'm leaving this...whatever it is for you to hold until I get back."

She shrugged, nodding slowly. "Alright. But I really do want to eat this morning, so could you come back quick?"

A victorious grin spread over Jonathan's face, and he bobbled his head convincingly. "Of course, of course! I'll be back in a jiffy. Just don't lose that box, love."

She rolled her eyes, allowing herself to collapse into bed again. She heard the scuffle of expensive leather shoes on the floor, and the friendly slam of the door behind him as he left. For a while, until the sounds of him disappeared down the hall, a whistled drinking hymn floated to her ears. Her eyelids dropped, and she was encompassed in the darkness of her mind. Vaguely, her fingers traced over the engravings of the trinket in her hand. She hoped the damned thing was worth a lot to him.

Jonathan Carnahan was a vexing, if entertaining sort. The last time she had seen him, he was overwhelmed with money to spend; this passed night, he came empty-handed. He was a gambling, drinking ne'er-do-well, with nothing to smile about and an endearing grin. She wondered what mother, or sister, or wife was stuck harboring his tendencies, and if the said woman was insane. He was the type that would drive a woman insane, if she didn't love him.

But she didn't think often on love, specifically because she was in the business of it. She didn't think love was stupid, or had any bitter feelings regarding it--she simply didn't think about it. Thinking about love, too often, involved thinking of another person, and she didn't have time for another person. She'd been suffering the same coughing ailment for a week now, and she'd only recently developed an appetite again. She was grateful for that. Hunger meant she was still well. It was the times--the days over days--when she wasn't hungry, when she had to force her own food down, that frightened her. Just yesterday, she'd begun to notice those itching warts creeping up on her again. She snorted her irritation at the heated light that floated through her window. That was the last time she took business from Beni Gabor.

She knew a thought like that was a lie. From wherever he got it, Beni retained money, even if he was a rat and tried to cheat her. He always had it, because he was too gold-thirsty to keep it far from his being. Warden Hassan was like that, too, but he was too stupid to try and dupe her. He didn't have enough foresight to think to pay less than was expected. Hairy and reeking and disgusting though he was, the warden made for one of her favorite customers. He'd never tried to leave her with a trinket as...what was it? "Leverage." There truly was a lack of customers she could call enjoyable, anyway. Oh, that American...O'Connell...his body was in good condition, and he had some charm about him, but he was just another man. After a while, they all stop being charming. After a while, there is no difference in their bodies. After a while, none is better than the others.

Was it only a year ago that she was able to look forward to some? That she could be picky and flirtish and choose the handsome ones with nice builds and straight teeth? She wasn't that pretty anymore. She didn't have the energy to be flirtish. And she didn't have the luxury of being picky. Money was money, and she didn't sleep with men anymore. She slept with dollars, and pounds, and pretty gold chains that could be traded for more dollars and pounds.

She pulled herself to a sitting position, cracking her aching back. It felt as if the joints quivered fearfully long after she had stretched, but she resolved to ignore it until Jonathan brought her money and she could see another doctor. The brothel's owner had one doctor stop in every three months to hand out medicine and cut out warts and determine pregnancy. Frequently, the Mother Superior from one orphanage or another would drop by to take any children born after her last visit, crossing herself a dozen times and sending stoney glares to the girls. She could recall...only one child of her own to be taken. A girl, as she remembered. She'd had a few miscarriages--the exact count wasn't clear--and a stillborn, but the girl was the only child taken away. She remembered the baby was very white...and the hair clinging to her scalp was a soft, flaxen blonde. And she had been relieved because that meant the girl would be adopted into a good home, and that was enough. She'd never really had the desire to seek the child out; there seemed no point in revealing how disgraceful her birth was. But it was good to know she had been so perfectly white, because everybody knew that the dark babies and the half-breeds would stay in the orphanage until they were too old to stay there anymore. Wealthy Brits don't adopt the bastards of whores and Arabic men.

She rose to her feet, finding a thin, white shift crumpled on the floor. Picking it up, she found no serious fault with it, and put it on. It was a little short, but it was relatively clean, and it covered her. She grew weary of being naked so much. Walking over to her rouge cabinet, she picked up a brush and began to work the knots out of her hair. Her eyes met her form in the mirror, and she shrugged optomistically. She looked tired and malnourished, but better, at least, than the night she had seen herself a few weeks ago. She would eat as much as she could manage today, and gain back some weight. If she wanted to make more money, she would have to be able to attract richer men.

Someone was knocking at her door. She very nearly smiled, because it appeared as if Jonathan would be going through with his word. Her bare feet graced the floor across the room, opening the threshhold expectantly. Instead of the chipper blue gaze she had been hoping for, she met the wild, anxious dark eyes of the brothel's owner.

"Hûr, prepare yourself! You look like hell!" he shouted hoarsely, black gaze darting about the room. "You have no one this morning?"

She studied him, still puzzled at his insistence. "He left...What's the matter, Ghazi?"

He looked bewildered, running his fingers thoughtfully over the tattoo on the back of his hand. His breathing was quick and nervous, and he ran an anxious tongue over his lip. Irritably, he grabbed her by the arm and drew her out of the room with all the force of his diminutive body.

"Go, bathe! Dress! Perfume! Buthainah is buying silks for your bed. Hurry!"

She scratched her head, her confusion being emitted from her gaze. "Why...?"

Ghazi's eyes blazed, and he began pushing her down the hall towards the bath closet. "Abia already drew you a bath, and it's getting cold! The Med-Jai are coming! Hurry!"

She tried to shake herself out of this odd reverie. "Who?"

The brothel owner heaved an agitated sigh, his body twitching with anxiety. "The Med-Jai! The highest of our tribe! They are collecting to pay tribute to Mohammed Bey! To the desert people first, then to the towns! Bathe, Hûr! Prince Ardeth will be here any time!"

Confusion was knitting into her brow, and she stared at him blankly a moment longer. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, she was pushed in a frenzy into the bath closet. She would have said something, but steam was rising with the inviting aroma of spices and flowers from the humble tub, and a tray of dates rest ready for her watering mouth.

Whoever the Med-Jai were, and this Mohammed Bey and Prince Ardeth, they could come any time they pleased.

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_Hûr: Arabic for white, especially when contrasting the white of the eye to the black of the pupil and/or iris. Not a real name. _


	3. Sahara's Prince

**Sahara's Prince**

Gahzi called her Hûr because he couldn't pronounce "Gretchen" justifiably. It was difficult for her to determine which was worse. She'd thought Gretchen was a cruel joke of a name, but so much time had passed since she had been called it that the idea of someone referring to her by her given name was almost enticing. Her eyelids dropped in satisfaction as her teeth sunk into the lush, giving flesh of the fig in her hand. A slow, quiet moan escaped her throat as she placed the fruit back on the platter beside the tub, and she found it remotely funny that a simple little plant could procure the kind of noises from her that so many men struggled to. She thought that was a rather odd thing to come into her mind, and opened her eyes, staring at her hands. Who knew her palms could be so very white? The backs of her hands made her virtually undistinguishable from the native girls, which would make Gahzi unhappy. She wondered what was so much more valuable about a skinny, rather plain, deeply-tanned white woman when his most beautiful employees were those born on Cairo's streets, of Cairo's inhabitants.

A knock on the door made her flinch so badly that some of the precious, aromatic water splashed upon the floor. She cleared her mind quite easily and yelled:

"Someone's in here!"

Despite her warning, the rotting wood crashed against the wall as a rather irritable young woman flung it open. Gretchen sighed audibly, pushing a soaking lock from her eyes and glanced up at the stained ceiling for strength. With a personal groan, she met the feral black gaze reluctantly.

"What do you want, Meela?"

Meela was bitter because she was Gahzi's most beautiful girl and registered as almost nothing to him. Gretchen would have killed to have Meela's high cheekbones or feline eyes or glistening jet hair, at least at one time. Nowadays, no one's looks made much difference to her.

"Gahzi says to hurry. And you have a visitor."

Before the proud Egyptian woman could manage a deathly glare for good measure, Jonathan was pushing past with barely a glance. Gretchen watched him notice her after a moment, running his tongue thoughtfully over his lips before ripping his eyes urgently back to her. He was holding up his fist triumphantly, and the prostitute was smiling despite herself.

"You have the money!" she exclaimed, a wave of energy overtaking her.

The Englishman grinned, throwing a fistful of bills by the figs and rubbing his hands together plaintively, looking about the room with a distinct lack of nonchalance. "So! I'll be taking my trinket, and then I'll be off."

She sighed disdainfully and gripped the lips of the tub with her long fingers, pulling herself from the warm, comfortable waters. Instantly, she was encompassed by a cooling sensation she may have appreciated, had she been too hot before. Jonathan's eyes were tracing the paths of every droplet that rolled off her skin, and a remotely self-conscious feeling itched in her spine for no more than a moment. After all, it wasn't as if they saw her so often in the daylight, and...well, she knew her body was nothing to be envied after. It was not so much the fact that he was studying her naked form--but that he was seeing what she really looked like, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Gretchen figured she could be quite ravishing after a series of whiskey shots and a badly-lit room, but Jonathan was sober now (well, sober for _him_), and the sun was shining harshly through the window and illuminating the humble little room, and there was nothing she could hide at the moment. She reached stiffly for her shift hanging just within arm's reach and pulled it on in a jerky motion and pushing passed the tall Englishman to the door and out the hall. With quick, mechanical steps she reached her room and threw open the door, not bothering to glance over her shoulder and meet his eyes. She didn't really have the apathy to look him in the eye just then, and that worried her.

The odd little box that had pathetically captured Jonathan Carnahan's interest was just where he had left it before. She closed her fingers about it and dropped it into the palm of his hand with a businesslike ease. He was smiling at his lost toy so ridiculously that Gretchen didn't know whether she wanted to laugh at him for the audacity of it or slap him in the face for his skewed priorities. Seeing as how he had just paid her, she decided good manners would make the best course of action.

"Well, there you are..."

He glanced up to meet her in her cool, dark eyes. "Yes, I suppose so."

She smiled, taking hold of his arm and leading him gently towards her door. "Please stop by again very soon, Jon."

He forced a small grin, though something about that stretch of his lips was tragic and ingenuine. It made her feel cold inside, and, in Egypt, that sensation was rare. "Of course, love."

Jonathan tagged a kiss on her cheek before he was out the door, down the hall...gone. She sighed, tangled in her thoughts for a moment before remembering the bills he had left her in the bathroom. She jumped to her feet, rushing from her room to the public bath. Now, that would just be her luck -- some nosy little bitch sneaking in there and taking her money--

Gretchen was able to breathe a sigh as her eyes collided with the crumpled mess of bills untouched on the tray of figs. Reinforced by their appearance, she slowed, her fingers brushing over the soft paper just as a deep, unfamiliar voice echoed down the hall:

"Know this, Ghazi. The only reason you are still a Med-Jai is on my grace. This establishment is an embarrassment to the tribes."

She turned about, catching a glimpse of the whoremaster bobbling his head like an idiot as a tall, dark man in black robes chided him in Arabic. She choked down a laugh, stuffing the money in the pocket of the shift and slipping out slowly. She met Ghazi's buggy, nervous eyes and bit down on her dry bottom lip, glancing up at the somber stranger. His black gaze froze the blood in her veins with an icy intensity she didn't know was capable of a man who'd apparently been birthed and bred in the sizzling sands. She swallowed anxiously, trying to think of the most nonchalant way to slip by them and into her room. Before that thought could ferment too long in her head, however, Ghazi's plump, rough fingers had closed easily about her thin wrist, yanking her into the middle of the hall.

"Please, my chief," Gretchen didn't know a man Ghazi's age could hit such a high note. "accept my humble tribute."

She wasn't a genius by any stretch of the imagination, and her Arabic was stuck in shabby mediocrity, so it took her a little longer than it probably should have for her to realize what the squat Egyptian was suggesting. Her eyes widened suddenly and her jaw dropped to compensate. She gaped for the words to say, but the Stygian fellow with the pensive frown beat her to it:

"You want me to take her? As tribute?" the nearest thing to a smile tugged at his lips, and something like a chuckle echoed from his throat. If he didn't seem so frighteningly dangerous, she would have considered him a handsome man. "Are you serious?"

Gretchen was shaking her head fervently, turning her shocked glare to Ghazi. "You can't--I can't go with him--"

But the pimp was all toothless smiles and flustered, over-exaggerated hand gestures. "Anything for the Med-Jai!"

She wanted to plead her case with this Med-Jai...individual, but she really lacked the guts to beg him. Mercy seemed outside of his character. She heard him sigh, and made the effort to glance up and watch him shake his head.

"You always gave my father a tribute of money..."

Ghazi shrugged. "Hard times."

His eyes--those deep, perpetual, soulless dark eyes were scraping over her like the sharp edge of a knife, and when she mustered the strength to flick a glance in his direction, she was struck by the remote, offended pain that glimmered back. Gretchen looked away quickly, a tremble slithering up her spine.

"Listen," Ghazi started up in his most salesmanlike tone, having the nerve to take the black-robed Med-Jai by the arm. He frowned at the short, slimy man, once, and the touch was quickly retrieved with an unnerved chuckle for good measure, "you collect the other tributes, and think about it. Come back at sundown and take her, if you want her, or we can negotiate something else."

Gretchen swallowed, something in her stomach itching in anticipation. In a way, she couldn't believe the words being spewed from the whoremaster's mouth; in another way, she was grimly unsurprised. Still--what was he thinking? He couldn't just...pawn her off to some desert man. She made a good deal of money for this place, and...well...seriously, what was she supposed to do out there? Milk camels and stitch sackcloth? She couldn't...well, she just _wouldn't--_

"We will see," he pronounced firmly, and with a swoosh of his cape (which Gretchen found a little too melodramatic, given the circumstances), he was striding down the hall and out of the wretched establishment she called a home.


	4. Three Americans and a lot of Whiskey

**Three Americans and a lot of Whiskey**

She needed a drink--a hard one--and a new place to stay.

Gretchen wasn't really sure which one was more important than the other as she examined the bills in he hand. She just knew that she _couldn't_ go play harem girl. She knew some part of her should have been offended by the fact that Ghazi and the chieftain considered her a cheaper gift than cash, but then she couldn't really blame them. A person was a hassle--more hassle than what most were worth. Certainly the food and clothes and bed and whatever else the tribe provided for her would be worth more than her company. She hoped the Med-Jai was considering this, also. Cairo wasn't much, but it had to be better than a tent in the middle of the desert. And if she was going to leave this crowded, ugly city, than it would be for a place apparently better.

As she wandered with remote determination down the dusty, suffocating street, Gretchen decided she would find that one person who could always solve her problems--who always had a solution and a helping, patient hand. She snorted sarcastically to herself, mocking sudden remembrance, _Oh, wait. I don't know anyone like that._ But she did know a good deal of opportunists. She knew people who would outstretch one palm for payment as the other lifted her up off the ground. She knew the synthetic trust that came with leverage. She knew Beni Gabor.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the very thought of having to deal with Beni. He certainly wasn't the rudest, or the most annoying, or slimiest fellow she did business with, but at the moment she could not recall the man who topped him in those arenas. Gretchen sighed. He was still better than the desert, and he was easy to please. She knew he had an apartment as well. Her brow furrowed at this thought, because she couldn't remember when she had learned that. Something in her head told her it was true, but something else doubted it. And she certainly didn't want to be wasting her best efforts on a rat with no home. Her feet slowed to a stop in front of the King's Casbah. She knew the haggardly mud-brick building well. The dark, seedy establishment was perhaps the biggest tourist trap in the whole city, because it was nestled intentionally in the lesser side of Cairo, and gave Egypt's sojourners the illusion of escaping the tourism track. It made Gretchen scoff. Those English and American and French travelers wouldn't condescend to an authentic Arabic bar. For one thing, they couldn't even communicate with the bartender.

She bit her lip thoughtfully, glancing at the heavy, black door. Her indecision was bothering her. Granted, it was only three in the afternoon. Ghazi wouldn't panic at her absence until six or so--five at the earliest. She had plenty of time, relatively speaking, to find a safe haven. With a shrug and nothing to lose, Gretchen pushed out of the blaring white light of day and into the dim, dingy world she was so much more accustomed to. The place was pathetically unoccupied. Typical, though, for a weekday and an early afternoon. A sigh escaped her throat as she mosied over to the bar and slid into a seat. Under normal circumstances, women weren't allowed alcohol in Egypt. But Western men insisted on retaining their silly notions of buying drinks for their dates and potential flings, and those vulgar vamps and flappers were too much trouble not to serve. If Gretchen cared about this country or its people, she might have found tragedy in their sacrifices for the sake of foreign colonization. But she didn't really see the point in pity. Who had that kind of energy? Everyone had his own problems; Gretchen certainly had hers...which, at the moment, consisted of a sinister desert man and the idiot musings of her pimp.

"Whiskey," she murmured, realizing the barkeep's waiting eyes. He opened his mouth for further specification, but Gretchen just shook her head wearily. "I...don't care. Just whiskey. In a glass. A big one."

She looked over the man getting her drink thoughtfully. He was a new one, she was almost certain. Younger than the guy who tended bar at night. He slid her the drink with a bony, grimy hand, and she glanced away from him without muttering a thanks. He was wide-eyed and starving, like everybody else. He was native, anyway. Muslims didn't see much value in casual sex. To be fair, Gretchen didn't, either. Most mornings, she woke up wondering what the point in the previous night had been. She personally couldn't figure out what was worth paying for, or why so mechanical a task could legitamately be taken as a trade-off for necessities. Here, she was banking on the fact that bedding a man would give her a safe, secret place to sleep tonight. And she knew she could count on that as a fact--not simply as a lofty, hopeful theory. But why? Not that she objected; for whatever reason, her opened legs were garaunteed to get her the things she needed. She had to assume the value of sex had something to do with the masculine mindset.

Gretchen tipped back her whiskey easily, allowing the liquid to sear down her throat and reach into her stomach with warm, buzzing fingers. She remembered, remotely, that she hadn't eaten yet that day, but lifted the glass against her lips and took another generous sip. Her head was numbing, and when the door opened, the hazy barroom tilted a little as she glanced to see who had come in.

"I still say I don't like the guy--"

Tourists. Loud, American tourists.

"Ah, hell, Daniels. Fella's the best egyptologist in the city!"

Gretchen blinked a few times to make their forms a little clearer. There was three of them, she was fairly certain, and they slouched easily into one of the back tables. As if anyone really cared enough to eavesdrop on them.

"I don't know what your deal is with 'im," the third one went on, just as loudly as before. "I'm a helluva lot more nervous 'bout that guide you hired."

The present victim of his friends' chidings let out a scoffing noise, shaking his head dismissively. "Ah...That little creep won't hurt nothin'. He's too scared not to do 'is job."

"I'm just sayin' I don't trust 'im," the other muttered finally. His buddies apparently didn't hear him.

"Burns, go get us a coupla drinks."

The same one sighed, standing up complacently and heading towards the bar. Gretchen took another gulp of her whiskey, and smiled at him. He barely gave her a glance before requesting the demands of his commandeering pals. She breathed a sigh, keeping a steady eye on him for a lingering moment before turning her eyes to the other two.

"You fellas gonna be lonely tonight?" she asked, surprised a little by the slur in her voice. One part of her wanted to be drunk for the rest of the day; the other, more logical part demanded that she sober up immediately if she didn't want Ghazi to find her.

"Nope," the spectacled young man replied easily, trying to grip the three glasses in his hands. Gretchen sighed, wrapping her fingers easily around one of the alcohol containers and pulling it from his reach. She could feel his irritated gaze, but disregarded it easily. If she had a dollar for every dirty look, she wouldn't still be in this business.

She slid from the barstool, her feet catching on each other and sending her dangerously close to plummetting to the ground. She gained her composure with clenched teeth, taking slow, measured steps across the room to reach the table. She got a thanks and a once-over that probably wasn't too impressed. But the whiskey was thumping in her head and tangling her thoughts around. She shook her head and sat down beside that Boston terrier of a man who'd been defending himself before. And then there was her whiskey in front of her again, and they were paying...and there was another whiskey...and she was laughing. The bar was spinning and full and dark and hilarious. Everything seemed so hilarious. And she was hungry, but she threw up...outside. How did she get outside? But there were the Americans again. Her sudden friends. She couldn't remember their names, but then they probably didn't know hers, either. And then at some point or another, everything faded around her into a remotely "fun" haze.


	5. Whiskey's Decisions

**Whiskey's Decisions**

The world shifted as Gretchen opened her eyes to the white-hot light of day. She struggled to swallow the arid feeling in her throat, groaning with the pains of consciousness. Her legs felt stiff and heavy, and the taste in her mouth was rotten. She lifted her trembling hands to her forehead, an excrutiating pulse throbbing beneath the warm, moist skin. Her fingers drifted to her hairline, pushing roughly through her tangled, mouse-colored locks. She squinted at the off-hued sheets crumpled around her, her eyes taking longer than usual to adjust to the sun's glimmer. The room shifted again, and her stomach turned upside down. Against her better judgement, Gretchen sat up.

Realization collided with a stunning blow. Sunshine was blaring in through a big, square window that let onto a view of an entirely azure, cloudless sky. The whole room stank like scum and dirty water, and when what was supposed to be solid beneath her tilted again, Gretchen took in a quick, frightened gasp. Above her, a loud, low whistle bellowed, and she let out a little scream of half-expectant surprise. She stumbled out of the bed, tugging the sheet unceremoniously out from the mattress and clenching it around her rather unimpressive bustline. Her feet didn't work quite as quickly as her mind urged them, but she made it to the window just the same.

"No, no, no, no," she kept moaning under her breath, her heart quickening to match the painful thump in her head. Her bony fingers gripped the windowsill tighter with each passing moment. This could not be happening. She was_ not_ on a fucking barge in the Nile.

Desperately, Gretchen tried to recount the previous night. The dim, hazy blankness wrapped tightly about her mind was far from reassuring. She took a deep breath. If the pounding in her head would stop, maybe she could look at this more clearly.

Yesterday. She fumbled to recall the events of the previous day. Her memory tripped through the fog of what she assumed to have been the recent, and into the earlier, sober happenings of the otherwise usual day. There had been something about a box...Jonathan. She distinctly remembered Jonathan. She snorted. If that drunken Englishman had anything to do with this...well, she'd strongly consider sleeping her way into whatever was left of his bank account. He was a chronic gambler with even more certain bad luck, but he always wore linen and his cufflinks were gold. If Jonathan had--well, wait. There was more after Jonathan. Jonathan had left with his box relatively early in the morning.

Gretchen snorted, trying to start again. The soft breeze created from the movement of the barge rustled her matted hair, pushing it over her face for a moment before she irritably flicked it away. She bit down on her nail impatiently, waiting for the next part of yesterday to occur. She was startled that she did not taste the usual, bitter flavor of her dirty fingernail, and was suddenly reminded of a bath. Yes, she'd bathed yesterday. Because...?

The trickle of thoughts started pouring in. Because of the chieftain, and the deal with Ghazi, and the bar, and the Americans, and...Gretchen let out an aggrevated sigh. Why did something so good as whiskey burn away recollections when she needed them most? Here she was on a barge, on the Nile and...

And...

"Rise and shine, baby!" a cowboy tone practically yelled from behind her. Gretchen gasped loudly, whipping around to meet the amused dark eyes of an almost familiar man. His voice sent an electric shock of pain through her skull, and she rubbed her forehead gingerly. "Ah, I'm sorry. Hangover?"

She gave him a short, sharp glare. "Who the hell are you?"

Her irritating companion let out a long whistle. "Shoot, you was stone-drunk, weren'tcha? You was walkin' and talkin' alright, far as I can remember, though..." He breathed a sigh, eyes twinkling. "Herman Daniels."

Gretchen glanced him over, taking an uneasy step away from the windowsill and gripping on to the wall. "Where are my clothes?"

Mr. Daniels shrugged, pushing her dirty, crumpled blouse with the steel toe of his boot. "Here's some--and over there. Just 'round about the room." He glanced up to meet her murky gaze again, giving her a little wink. Gretchen determined to ignore that for the time being.

"Hm," she glanced at her knickers just a little way from her feet. "Well I'm sure I had a real great time last night, but I got to run--"

He was laughing at her, and Gretchen was in no mood. She put only one hand on her hip, determining that it was best to keep her rather cheap goods covered in front of the esteemed Mr. Herman Daniels.

"Ah, honey, that's cute," he managed through his chortling spell. Gretchen wondered if he knew her name.

"Why?" she managed carefully. Daniels shook his head, leaning against the doorway.

"We're goin' out to Hamunaptra, remember? You said you wanted to come along--"

Gretchen's stomach dropped sickeningly. She damned her own stupidity, cursing herself and the whiskey and Ghazi and that desert man. She hoped he burned in hell. She hoped they all did. The tangles of her present unfortunate mess felt ready to close about her throat. Hamunaptra, indeed. She'd just avoided being dragged out into the middle of the desert, and now this dumbass Mr. Daniels was about to take her there, anyway. She swallowed, a dark anger quickly consuming the hopelessness inside of her. "When the hell'd I ever say that?" she demanded hoarsely.

Daniels shrugged in his easy, nerve-grating way. "Last night. At the bar, you said you needed to get away from your pimp and said you wanted to come with us to dig for treasure."

She pursed her lips. "I said that?"

He shook his head, a grin on his face. "You was drunk as a sailor."

Gretchen's eyes widened, and her short, pathetic nails tried to dig into the wall behind her. What an idiot man. Who did he think he was, anyway? This made for one sick practical joke. And surely he could have told that she was in a stupified state last night. Surely he knew she had been in no condition to make that kind of decision. He was a jerk, that's what he was. He had just dragged her down here because he thought it was funny. Bastard.

She could feel her teeth cutting angrily into her bottom lip. "I need to get off this thing--"

"Not at fifty bucks a night, you don't."

Her hand slid down the side of the wall in shock, and her fingers loosened on the sheet about her. Her dark, awestruck gaze stared blankly into his flashing, arrogant eyes, mouth gaping in stupified wordlessness. Her numb mind barely managed:

"What?"

Daniels smirked, sauntering lazily across the room to stand directly in front of her. He was at least an inch and a half shorter. "I said, 'not at fifty bucks a night --"

Gretchen kissed him full on the mouth.


	6. Thief's Reciprocity

**Thief's Reciprocity**

Gretchen took the liberty of sleeping the rest of the afternoon to gain full recovery from the previous night, and when she opened her eyes from her prolonged nap, she found herself staring into darkness. She had decided to take advantage of the fact that, within the week, she wouldn't have the luxury of a bed and would have to be sharing an uncomfortable stretch of sand with the illustrious Mr. Daniels. As she dragged herself from the haphazardy of waking in the night, she recalled, with a personal little snort, the vague memory of her present client. He was a short man: that, Gretchen determined with a sigh, very nearly summed him up. After he had informed her that he was employing her services for an inflated price over the course of the trip, she gave him fifteen minutes of what he'd paid for--after which, he passed into a slumber of maybe half an hour. She'd heard him stir and leave the room in a brief moment of waking before she fell fast and hard into the subconsciousness of sleep again. Gretchen decided his abbreviated _everything_ was going to make this a rather blissful money-making venture. Granted, she was hardly ecstatic about hanging around some dusty, crumbling ruins, but for fifty dollars a night, she decided she could bear it.

Fifty bucks a night...on a week and a half dig...That was five hundred dollars. With five hundred dollars, she could leave Cairo.

The thoght struck her oddly as she pulled herself from the bed and fumbled for a lamp. Gretchen frowned in heavy consideration. Her fingers found a little metal knob, and twisting it created a warm, growing yellow light that illuminated her dark little enclave. Leave Cairo...and go where? She supposed back to America, to New York and her mother and a real job somewhere. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she tried to imagine a reality with rain and cold and people who spoke her language. She tried to place herself working as a receptionist or a cashier in some quaint little shop, and having men flirt with her and ask her out to dinner. Gretchen didn't try to hold down the soft, incredulous laugh in her throat. The whole idea was so benignly surreal. Her, living at home with Mama again? Her, getting married to some Cillian or Sean from the old neighborhood, and wearing a white dress down the aisle? Gretchen snorted and began to get dressed. She couldn't have her adolescence back. What was she supposed to say about the five years she was gone? What was she to tell Mama, or this proverbial husband, or employer? Surely she wasn't supposed to grow to be an old woman, chatting on the street about grandchildren after being a whore in Cairo. Surely she wasn't supposed to make money without taking a man to bed, or have children with a father, or take the name of the gentleman who sexed her.

It occured to Gretchen rather suddenly that she was supposed to die before this possibility ever arose. All the smoke and mirrors of one day leaving the life were supposed to reveal their common, disappointing trick, and she was supposed to die wretched and diseased and starving in the streets. Nobody was supposed to give her five hundred dollars. Gretchen decided she wouldn't let Daniels in on the apparently elusive logistics of the world, and take her money with a thank you. Still...what was she supposed to do with it?

With a sigh, Gretchen decided that she would figure it out later and pushed her unusual position to the back of her mind. After all, the week was not over and the money was not in her hands. She could have a prostitute's proper death yet. Still, the idea of five hundred dollars promised to her made Gretchen smile in a way she hadn't in some time, and she hummed as she buckled her garters and buttoned her blouse. She chanced a look in the mirror and noticed that Daniels had crookedly shoved a picture of some woman in the framework. Gretchen cocked her head to the side, considering the woman's bobbed, pin-curled hair. She glanced at her own reflection, slipping her fingers between the locks and imagining them shorn at her chin. It would make them a hell of a lot easier to manage, she mused.

Meeting her own eyes, she pined for her make-up kit. A little rouge and shadow and she might be worth a second glance tonight. The sleep had flushed her face and the thought of escape had awoken features that had been mechanical for some time. With a ruthless sigh, she pinched her cheeks and bit down hard on her bottom lip, watching the flow of blood to her face. She shrugged, determining that she had no choice but to be satisfied, and left the room. The hall led to the left and to the right, up a flight of stairs to what had to be the deck. Gretchen gripped the wall and took careful steps down the long corridor; she hadn't been on a boat since her trip to Egypt in the first place, and doubted she had much tolerance for the natural rock and dip of the water. She reached the deck with a sigh, taking a breath of the cool air and murky water. The smell of cigars and liquor nearly drowned it out, and the noise all around implied a crowd of people. Gretchen noticed a gaggle about a poker table; among them, Daniels and his companions and...well, she'd be damned. Jonathan Carnahan.

"Well it's about time you woke up!"

Gretchen glanced up to meet her client's winking gaze. She fought back the desire to roll her eyes.

"We was just startin' a new round of poker. You want, Jonathan can deal you a hand," a shaggy, blonde man invited with a grin. Gretchen smiled politely. She didn't even know how to play poker.

"No, that's okay--"

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder, meeting her eyes. His wide, blue gaze lit with surprise, and he stared at her for a thoughtful moment.

"What are you doing here, love?"

He reached his arm out and Gretchen took a step closer to allow him to grasp her waist from where he sat. Daniels shot him a look.

"She's with us," he muttered implicatively.

Gretchen had to wonder why he would bother being protective. Any man on the barge could have her any other time he pleased. In fact, to be perfectly technical, any man could still have her, as long as it was during the day, seeing as how Daniels had specified nights as his payment period.

"Oh," Jonathan breathed with an anxious smile, removing his arm. "I see."

Daniels pulled out an empty chair from another table within his grasp, twisting it next to himself. "Come have a seat, sugar!"

Gretchen obliged with an eager smile, though she would have much rather prefered a walk alone on the deck. She stared at the table with polite disinterest as Jonathan began to deal out the cards.

"So if you don't mind my asking," he began conversationally, "what is it you fine gentlemen do for a living?"

The three Americans glanced at each other; Gretchen's interest was piqued.

"Well," the spectacled one began with a little smirk, "we don't mind you askin' if you don't mind us not tellin'!"

His friends laughed for entirely too long before Daniels explained:

"We're bootleggers!"

Gretchen's brow furrowed curiously, and she glanced over at her client in genuine interest. "What does that mean?"

The blond was mocking her with a chortle. "Shit, and I figured you to be American!"

She forced a polite smile, reminded of the five hundred dollars again. "I am, I just...haven't been there for a while."

"See, honey, we got this Prohibition law passed back in '20," Daniels began, situating the cards in his hand by suit. Gretchen stared at him in shock. She remembered talk of outlawing liquor back when she was a teenager, but all the old neighborhood men had laughed it off over their ale. She tried to imagine Hell's Kitchen without the factory men religiously communing at the bar for a drink after a long day of work. "And folks started gettin' awful thirsty..."

Their guffahs echoed a little longer before the blond picked up the story again, "We run moonshine 'round the Chicago area. I ain't even from Illinois, but that's where the money's at. Burns here, he dropped outta college there at--where was you goin'?"

The quiet man with a glasses tried to hide the flush of color in his cheeks. "Moody."

"Right!" the blond continued, "He dropped outta Moody to bootleg with us!"

Gretchen glanced up at the man, presumably Burns, waiting to see if he'd look up, too. She'd heard of Moody. It was a fairly new establishment, started by that evangelist out in Chicago. She wondered if he'd wanted to be a pastor before Daniels and his shaggy friend had roped him into the whir of easy money, and she found herself thankful he didn't get the chance to preach to a congregation. Any man that easily dragged into crime was probably better off staying out of churches altogether.

"And this makes money?" Jonathan inquired, laying a bid on the table. Daniels gave him a smug grin.

"I'm here, ain't I? I'm layin' a hundred dollars for my bid, ain't I?"

Gretchen glanced back at the deck again, entranced by its loneliness. It was nearly desolate, except for a woman and her book. She leaned far to her other side, trying to catch a glimpse of the opposite side of the deck. There were more people, a few couples having a chat, and a thin, gaunt fellow nursing a drink. Gretchen's eyes widened. She turned quickly to Daniels.

"I'm going to go see somebody for a minute."

He frowned curiously. "See somebody? Who?"

Something in the back of her mind was irritated by being watched like a child, but something in the front yelled, "Five hundred dollars!" and silenced her desires to be rude or sarcastic. She smiled and decided that she couldn't go home to her mother ever again.

"An old...friend." She had to choke the word out. Never before had she referred to him, in word or thought, as a friend.

Daniels shrugged, going back to his game. "Okay."

Gretchen stood up, squeezing through the crowded tables and past a scowling man who glared up at her through his monocle. She didn't take the time to be offended and slipped over to the deck, dropping in a chair across from her "friend," as it were. He looked up from the amber enigma in his glass, surprise glinting silver in his off-blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

She reminded herself, _again,_ that he wasn't doing that sing-song whine to annoy her; it was just the way he spoke. "I was looking for you yesterday."

He pushed away his initial shock to smirk in his mind's dirty manner. "I knew you'd miss it after a few days."

Gretchen sighed, turning her attention to the rolling, smelling water surrounding them. "I needed a place to stay."

He stared at her in interest. "Ghazi kicked you out?"

She shook her head in wonder, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous nature of her situation. "He was going to sell me to some desert chieftain...You have an apartment, right?"

He took an uneasy swallow of his drink. "I did when I left this morning, but the landlord has been trying to kick me out for weeks. I do not know if it will still be mine when we get back. We will see."

Gretchen snorted quietly, connecting gazes with the full, white-hot moon. It was never that impressive in the city, never gave any light to the murky streets. She sighed.

"That guy Daniels is giving me five hundred dollars to screw him over this trip."

She could feel his eyes sneering at her. "They're giving me a thousand to take them out there..."

Her eyes flashed back to his. She knew a thing or two about Beni. He'd told her about his cons on numerous occasions. _"And_ bring them back?"

He made an indistinguishable sound of disgust in the back of his throat, taking another drink. "Yes. Unfortunately."

Gretchen watched him set the glass down, and reached across the table, wrapping her fingers around the cold, nearly-empty container. She took a gulp, grimacing.

"Gin? Seriously?"

Beni looked at her with an incredulous eye, tilting his head to the side. "So what is the real reason you came over here? Did you not fit in with the other Americans?"

She didn't like his mocking sneer, or his tone. She jerked her chin in a defiant little motion. "I'm still gonna need that place to stay when we get back."

He grinned impishly. "What are you going to give me for it?"

Gretchen sighed, gazing up at the moon as she muttered the mechanical, cliched words: "Whatever you want."

She wondered why he even asked as he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. They both knew she only had one thing worth any remote value, and even then--it was damaged goods. She figured the only reason he ever raised the question was to feel powerful over her; to get a surge from forcing her to stoop to some social low on his whim. Sometimes, Gretchen mused that he was the one stooping. He was the one accepting something as fleeting and ultimately ungratifying as sex for a place to sleep. Maybe they were both fools, trying to deal in human flesh and passion and dingy, cramped tenements.

Gretchen very nearly asked him about his opinion on the all-too-common trade-off, but he had jumped out of his seat rather suddenly, and was crouching over to the pile of luggage thrown unceremoniously in the center of the deck. Her brow furrowed in interest:

"What is it?" she asked in a loud whisper.

Beni glanced back at her, starting to squeeze himself into a small opening between the suitcases and a wall.

"O'Connell."


	7. Nile's Cruelty

**Nile's Cruelty**

Gretchen finished off Beni's drink, waiting for him to crawl out of the luggage again. Leaning back in her chair, she considered going back to the Americans and Jonathan and their poker game, just to put up a good face. The guy was giving her five hundred dollars or...was going to, at least. Her stomach twisted with sudden apprehension as she realized that, after traipsing around the desert for ten days, she would have to share her living space with Beni Gabor. Granted, it would be for very long. Just until she figured out what remote location she was going to purchase a ticket for. And she knew it was better to feed off his money and have to tolerate him than to spend her own. Knowing Beni, he would unwisely choose some expensive tourist hotel to shack up in until his small fortune ran dry--and she would get out of there long before his funds ran out and he had to sneak through a window to avoid his bills. Beni Gabor was nobody's mystery.

Across the deck, she noticed a young woman by the animals. She seemed enthralled with one of the camels, which made the spectacled broad a bit of a loon in Getchen's book. Even so, something about the opposite woman made her sigh wearily, because she was much too tired to seethe in jealousy or longing. She wondered if that other woman was married. A fleeting glance from the lady made Gretchen doubt it. In those wandering eyes, a pretty, girlish naivete persisted that was unmistakably virgin. Gretchen doubted she had a husband, or a lover--at any point. She was no one to judge; she knew that, between the two of them, her promiscuous vocation had earned her the less-desirable road traveled. She couldn't even remember a time when she was ignorant of the red light district, or didn't know what blow job was. It had become her business...and yet, still, in some estranged, normal part of the world, women like that one went through a natural course of life, and married when they were supposed to marry and slept with who they were supposed to sleep with. Had she really made it so far from the mainstream that--

A loud, cursing splash interrupted her thoughts. Her head jerked up in curious startlement, but whatever it was, it had careened overboard from the opposite side of the deck. Gretchen was not so interested as to stand up and walk around the mound of luggage to see, so she leaned back in her chair again, staring up at the moon. She really wasn't much of one for nature. She had grown up in Hell's Kitchen; her parents had fantasized about a little green farm out West, but Gretchen was never given the opportunity to appreciate the beauty of the prehistoric world, and so sought comfort in the harsh angles of the industrialized man-made. Even so, she was fascinated by the heavy, pearly rock hanging precariously in the blue-dark sky. So fascinated that, at first, she didn't hear the heavy, foreboding footsteps of wet boots on wood flooring.

They came from the opposite side of the deck, but they were nearing. She glanced up towards the couple about four tables down, just in time to catch the horror show of a black-swathed form slit their throats open in the deadly silence of skill. A gasp lodged in her throat so that she couldn't scream, but her mind somehow transmitted the instinct to get up, to run to the others. The more people, the less likely her death. If nothing else, Gretchen could be lost in a crowd. She rushed to the gamblers, her heart pounding in the rhythm of murderous footsteps. Each breath she knew, _knew_ was her last, until--

Fire. The hot crackling ignited the joy riders' interest; the game and money no longer mattered, and Gretchen no longer had anything to warn them about. In the fifteen seconds it had taken her to reach them, the entire boat had become a battlefield. One stoic warrior had become a dozen, a hundred, a thousand it seemed. She didn't know what to do. She stood helplessly in the midst of the chaos, and then a hand latched her elbow and dragged her down beside it.

"The hell're you doin'!" Daniels shouted more than asked, loading bullets into his guns. She knew he wasn't listening, so she didn't waste the breath in an answer. Gulping in the smoky air, Gretchen found herself ironically longing for a cigarette. She almost never smoked, but--

A shout, a scream of anguish. She let out a yelp in startled response, twisting her head in every direction to catch a glimpse of something, of anything. Burns jumped up and dragged a table to barracade them from the inevitable onslaught; that monocled man cowered beside her, fidgeting as if with a spasm at every tiny explosion, at every emptied cartridge.

"Run down and get my Colt."

The words drifted in vague clarity through the mess around them. She turned and stared at her trigger-happy client.

"What?"

Not even a breath. "My Colt's in the room downstairs. Go get it."

Gretchen scoffed, jerking her head towards the professor. "Make him go get it."

Daniels's jaw clenched, and he whirled around to stare her in the eye, "Woman, if you don't go get my goddamn Colt I'm gonna pop you right in the mouth!"

"Do it," she retorted. If he thought that was the worst threat she'd ever gotten, he was kidding himself. "I'm not risking my life for your fucking gun."

But he shoved her away from the table with a searing glare for good measure, and suddenly she was back in the mess. People--men and women--and all these animals were racing towards, her, pushing past her and careening overboard, into the Nile's redemptive muddy water. Her head was spinning again, and she could hear Daniels yelling, and everybody was yelling, and she was backed up against something that was like a wall, but too short, and she was...

"Lady, you gotta get off this boat."

Blue eyes. She'd seen dozens of blue eyes, but somehow she remembered his. The American Legionnaire's eyes were a kind of blue she didn't think really existed in most place. It was a distant, imaginary blue...and it was boiling, right now. Urgent. She gasped suddenly, realizing she had been staring at him unnaturally long.

"Get me off!"

She hit the water with a splash. It took Gretchen a moment to realize he had thrown her overboard, and that she was underwater. The painful burn of water down her nose and swishing in her throat filled her mind with the anxiety of forgetting to take a breath beforehand; the current was pulling her towards the shore. It occured to Gretchen vaguely that she didn't know how to swim, but when her head surfaced and air was choking into her lungs, she forgot the importance of reality. Her arms and legs flailed in an off-kilter water-treading; she spent an eternity fighting the grim, scummy waves and praying that she didn't get attacked by a crocodile or hippo or some damn thing. The brown water engulfed her, dragging at her feet and shoving at her body. She pushed forward until her toes scraped slick, silty sand. She heaved for her breath and crawled to shore, her mind a daze of Nile and blue eyes and I forgot Daniels's gun...

She rest her head against the welcoming, dry land. Bugs buzzed and hovered over her skin and her hair clung to her face in matted locks that reeked like the river. She pushed herself up on shaking arms and turned to watch the boat drift by, a floating inferno awakening the quiet wilderness. There were people...so many people around her. Someone was touching her shoulder and she looked up, eagerly grasping the waiting hand. He pulled her up with an endearing, crooked smile.

"Where are your American friends?"

Gretchen snorted, leaning against Jonathan's soaking body. "You like them a hell of a lot more than I do."

He breathed a sigh, arching his back. "Oh, now I wouldn't say that too hastily. They made off with..._nearly _all my money, and--"

"Hey! Hey! O'Connell!"

Gretchen squinted into the night, her gaze colliding with a familiar form prancing about on the opposite bank. Her breath caught as she noticed her Legionnaire only a few yards away.

"It looks to me like I've got all the horses!"

The forms across their watery barrier began to take shape, and make sense. Gretchen's stomach dropped. If Beni was over there...so were the Americans, and then, so was Daniels and...so was her five hundred dollars.

"Hey, Beni! Looks to me like you're on the wrong side of the river!"

Her heart thumped in heightened irritation against her ribs. Well, it looked as if Gretchen had landed herself on the wrong side of the river, too.


	8. Three Americans and a Pompous Professor

**Three Americans and a Pompous Professor**

"Let's get moving."

Gretchen's gaze jerked away from the loud, irritable struggle awkwardly attempting to drag itself across the river. Her stomach churned uncomfortably as the incoherent curses rose with continuing frequency, and seemed to be vocalized most often from her client. If he was even still her client any longer...She snorted. Like he was really going to miss that gun. He'd had two in his holsters, ready and waiting when the whole foray...thing broke out.

Her Legionnaire--_O'Connell_--his name was O'Connell and he wasn't her Legionnaire--but, all things aside, he was hauling suitcases with sudden urgency. She swallowed hard, glancing across the Nile again. She ran her tongue over her lips indecisively, squinting to perhaps clear up the dirty, angry mess of action taking place on the opposite bank. She opened her mouth to make some kind of protest, but that bookish lady from the deck beat her to it:

"It's near midnight!"

He grunted in return. A thick, short hand gripped her elbow suddenly, tugging for her attention. She didn't realize until she turned to see who was wanting her that Jonathan had taken a firm, instinctive grip on her shoulders. Gretchen could feel his breath wafting down on her, and she could smell the rank familiarity of alcohol in the warm, uneasy air slipping from his nose and open mouth. She wondered how drunk he was, and if he could stand on his own without swaying.

Gretchen glanced down and met the invading glare of the warden of Cairo Prison. At that moment, she couldn't quite recall his name; he always re-introduced himself when he employed her services, and despite the regularity of their meetings, she only remembered his name for a day or two. Something with an H. _Ha--Hass..._

"You!" he exclaimed with an accusing finger. His round, homely face broke out in a grin of crooked and discolored teeth. She smiled back.

"Well, Warden, I never expected you to be--Hey!"

O'Connell was determined to struggle out of the brush and muck they happened to be in. Gretchen glanced over at the other crew again, sighing impatiently. What was the matter with them? Strapping men and a dozen hardworking, rough-backed natives, and they hadn't progressed an inch!

The tall American turned, meeting her eyes with his pointed, fantasy-blue gaze. His brow furrowed curiously. "Who the hell're you?"

She swallowed difficultly. It was as if then, suddenly, the other three demanded to know the same, despite the fact that Jonathan and Warden Hassan--ha!--already knew her...in practically every sense of the word. Still, when O'Connell noticed her, she felt uneasy, as if someone had shown a white-hot light into her eyes.

"I'm, uh--I'm with the others..."

Jonathan grinned his personal reassurance. "O'Connell, this is Gretchen. She's a...um, friend of mine. "

Before anyone present could decipher the obvious implications of that language, Gretchen cut in with a new subject. "Don't you think we should wait?"

O'Connell glanced at that woman in her soaking nightgown, as if what he was about to say depended on her. "Not with a five hundred dollar bet saying we get there first."

Well didn't that figure?

She could feel Jonathan's sympathetic eyes, but she knew there was no use in them. A wager was something like a sacrament to the swaggering Englishman. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the red-faced company. Burns had lost his glasses in the water and Henderson was helping him find them; Beni was tugging at the rope of a camel and Daniels splashed him in the face, taking the rein himself. The fact that the men on the opposite bank were absolute morons happened to be an all too important factor in measuring whether or not Gretchen would be sitting here alone tonight. She was soaked through and chilled, and the bugs swarmed around her with fitful vengence, it seemed. She could only imagine the number of little red bites crawling up and down her arms and legs in the morning. God, if _only_ it was morning.

"Are you comin'?"

Gretchen whirled around, noticing that her companions of present were pulling themselves inland. O'Connell waited a few yards away, and he seemed impatient.

"I think I should wait for them--"

His muscular shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "If you wanna wait on the bank with the crocodiles, that's your business, lady. But there's a village about half a mile north of here, and that's where we're spending the night."

She glanced one more futile time across the river, and nodded. Her feet pushed awkwardly through the muck, and O'Connell extended his arm to her. She smiled politely, wrapping her fingers around his elbow and steadying herself. Gretchen decided that the others didn't matter anymore. She knew, what with their supplies getting doubly soaked, that there was a likely possibility of them stopping at the same village, since it happened to be so close. But if they didn't, then she made the commitment of not being completely crushed. After all, who was to say Daniels would want her anymore? Whether he did or not, she deduced that seeing him tomorrow morning--rather than whatever time he finally made it across the river -- was probably in her best interest. His temper pulsed red and hot; she could hear it in every throbbing string of curses he spat out.

Gretchen's shoes scraped against the satisfying gravel of a country road. O'Connell released her arm awkwardly, his eyes studying her in vague confusion.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

She smiled uneasily, glancing at the book lady shivering against Jonathan. "Yeah, but..."

He looked down her body and back up to her eyes. Even in the dim, pallid glow of moonlight, Gretchen could see the flush in his cheeks. She forced a nervous laugh, and he gulped, his Adam's apple jerking uncomfortably.

"You're a, uh--hm. Jonathan's 'friend,' huh?"

Gretchen sighed, catching a glimpse of Hassan's dark eyes and licked lips. "I'm a lot of people's friend."

The woman walked a yard or so ahead of them glanced over her shoulder. Her flesh was overrun with goosebumps, and the prostitute shivered her sympathy. Why was the desert night so cold?

"I'm Evelyn Carnahan, by the way."

Gretchen's stomach dropped. Great. Not only was Jonathan married, his wife was right here before her. As a rule, Gretchen didn't like wives. The feeling was generally mutual. She watched Jonathan wrap his arms about the pretty brunette. He looked back at her with a wink.

"My baby sister," he added for her benefit. Gretchen sighed. Sisters weren't much better than wives, but at least they didn't confront with the intent to harm. Gretchen had harbored a black eye for a week because of a lousy German's wife. Sisters weren't that dangerous.

"Gretchen," she supplied in return. Evelyn forced a little smile over her shoulder.

"Pleasure to meet you."

Gretchen doubted that. "Yeah. A pleasure."

The brunette continued to walk briskly beside Jonathan; the prostitute continued to step carefully beside O'Connell; Hassan continued to grumble along behind. The dark, still night yawned around them, cold and desolate and dirty. This whole country was a mess. The cities--even the tourist cities--were squalor and the roads were dangerous. Children died of starvation and illness and rickets; women were subhuman caregivers. Gretchen hated this place. She hated the natives and she hated the English; she especially hated the tourists. She hated the desert with its endless golden nothing; she hated the wind that howled in her ears when it was gusty enough. She hated everything about Egypt, and she wondered about the people who didn't. She wondered if those who believed in the haunted beauty of this place seriously existed. She wondered if maybe one has to be outside of a cage to appreciate it.

"I thought you said this town was close by!" Jonathan groaned ahead of them. Gretchen heard O'Connell take in a sharp breath.

"Walk faster. It'll feel closer," he retorted darkly. In ridiculous response, the fortuneless Englishman extended his steps and hurried forward. They walked another ten minutes before a huddle of primitive tents began to take shape on the blue-black horizon. Gretchen sighed, glancing up at her fellow American.

_"That's_ what you call a town?"

He must have grown up in the country.

O'Connell bristled. "I said it was a village. A...small village."

Evelyn snorted loudly. "It will due for the night. Where do we, um...sleep?"

Her hazel eyes scanned the assortment of camel-hair establishments. O'Connell strode to the front of their small group. "Evelyn, I'm disappointed in you."

Her brow furrowed with offense. "Why?"

He took a breath, motioning to the sleepy village. "We're in the Middle East. After...'honor Allah,' hospitality is pretty much the major commandment. Go knock on a door."

"They don't have doors," Gretchen put in. O'Connell turned his flashing eyes to hers, opening his mouth to say something. The warden had already made his way to a tent and opened the flap. The company turned in silent interest, the sound of Arabic conversation rustling in smooth whispers on the cold, night breeze. Jonathan's jaw went slack as Hassan was admitted entrance, leaving the rest of them to the desert.

"Well," Jonathan breathed in surprise. "I guess if a stinking bugger like him can get a place to hole up for the night, I can."

Gretchen could feel Evelyn's gaze on her face expectantly. She turned slowly to look at the other woman, aprehension rising in her throat. "I'm a bit...scared to stay on my own. Will you go with me?"

The haphazard words clanged against the prostitute's ears, but she forced a smile and nodded. Truth be told, her Arabic was nothing impressive, and only worsened with exhaustion. She longed to be in a warm bed, and followed the Englishwoman complacently to a tent.

* * *

The hushed activity of morning pulled Gretchen into dim alertness, and she cracked open her eyes to recollect where she was, and what was happening. The previous night flowed through her memory with relative ease; she remembered the aging Arabic woman, smiling despite her lack of teeth, and her several daughters (Gretchen hadn't cared enough to count just then) welcoming her into their home. She knew very little of the culture of this place for the specific reason of apathy, but she was aware that turning away a guest at any time of the night or day was virtually heretical. She had learned of this practice, not through observance, but through Beni. He told her that he'd finally decided to settle in Cairo after a few months of village-hopping, taking advantage of the age-old tradition and robbing the impoverished for pocket-change. He'd informed her that it wasn't worth the trouble; what he stole was the equivalant of a few dollars at most, and if the man of the house should happen to wake up mid-heist, he was forced to high-tail it for his life. Thievery was punishable by amputation--one hand or both--but few were the protesters of a good, old-fashioned stoning. At least that was the way Beni described it, and Gretchen hadn't honestly cared enough to look into it.

The soft, warm scent of fresh bread filled her nostrils and tempted her stomach. Her tongue watered for food and _mmm_...the rich, lovely aroma of hot coffee wafted around her, coaxing her body to sit up. The brown, wrinkled woman caught her glance and smiled, motioning an arthritis-gnarled hand at the breakfast array set out in the center of the floor. Gretchen forced a polite smile, pulling herself across the cramped space to the Arabic "table," barely noticing Evelyn's alert gaze. The Englishwoman primly lifted a cup to her lips and took a ladylike sip.

"Good morning," she greeted after swallowing. Gretchen met her sparkling, green-gray eyes.

"Sure."

She turned her attention to the feast spread before them; breakfast was the most significant meal for desert-dwellers, and the most food was expected to be consumed in the morning. Gretchen passed over the food for the moment, reaching for a cup and filling it half-way with coffee. She filled it the rest of the way with frothy goat's milk and took a long, satisfying gulp of the scalding liquid. Well, if nothing else, Egypt had better coffee than the U.S. She supposed food and drink were always better in the places they came from.

"Did you sleep all right?"

Gretchen hated Evelyn's half-hearted attempts at conversation. It wasn't that she had anything against the woman, personally. But Evelyn was a woman, and women, as a rule, were nearly impossible for her to deal with. Even before she'd adopted her present occupation, Gretchen had had trouble with her fellow members of femininity. From her mother to the girls in the neighborhood to that German's wife--she simply didn't know how to react to them. Men were so easy, so direct. A man didn't take the time to bullshit; women seemed to create their whole personas on pretensious lies.

"Sure," she shrugged, reaching for a slice of flat bread. Evelyn sighed, toying with the corner of the itchy, goat hair slip their host had supplied each of them with. She turned her gaze to the thin, virginal white nightgown--clean, dry, and folded--at her side.

"I shouldn't have changed out of my clothes so quickly last night," she commented. "You were smart."

Gretchen scoffed quietly. "Gotta be prepared for creeps in black to set the boat on fire."

A polite smile pulled at the corners of Evelyn's lips. "I must have missed that in the traveler's guide."

The prostitute took another gulp of coffee and reached for a cluster of plump, red grapes. The Englishwoman's gaze stayed steady on her face.

"Gretchen--"

Her horrible name sounded somewhat less harsh when strained through her British accent. She looked up.

"I just want you to know, whatever your relation to my brother--"

Oh, here it came. The polite little threat.

"--you don't need to fear me."

Gretchen's brow furrowed curiously. Well, that was new. She stared into her crystalline eyes a moment longer, and she noticed a glint of loneliness that had not been visible before. The brown-eyed woman nodded slowly, ignoring the prick of sympathy that poked needlelike at her heart.

"Okay."

Evelyn swallowed, glancing away to scan over the foods. "Alright then."

The tent flap was tacked open, and the daughters of their hostess slipped in, giggling. They flocked around Evelyn, touching her thick, dark curls and staring into her unusual eyes. The Englishwoman smiled politely, shooting Gretchen a helpless look. The prostitute shrugged empathetically, reaching for the soft, white mound of cheese with a broken sheet of flatbread. They jabbered with her in Arabic and the Carnahan lady's cheeks flushed, an embarrassed chuckle sounding from her throat as they draped a robe over her shoulders and lead her out of the tent. Gretchen gulped more coffee, not entirely surprised at the fuss. Evelyn was a beautiful woman, and probably shown even brighter when sitting across from the likes of Gretchen. The Cairo hooker knew she had none of the traits they valued as lovely: no hips shaped for childbrith, no heavy breasts, no light, exotic eyes, no thick waves of hair. Gretchen was a skinny white girl with brown eyes and ratty locks, and it just didn't matter. Her looks could still be sold, and as long as her body could continue to make her money, she wasn't going to search for faults.

Gretchen finished off her coffee and poured another cup. She wasn't much with alcohol; she was drunk in three drinks--less if she hadn't eaten that day. But she could drink anyone under the table in coffee. She would suck down the hot, black liquid with equal parts milk or cream until her thin, bony frame shook from the caffeine. She could drink coffee steadily for as long as it was available to her; she'd drink it in, strong or weak, until it buzzed like cocaine in her blood. The only substance she truly could not live without was filling her cup just now. The dark, bitter drink was waking her mind and filling her stomach. She knew she ought to be eating more, but she wasn't accustomed to having so much for breakfast, and her body was unprepared for an onslaught of food.

Setting her cup down, she rose and stripped off her slip, reaching for her clothing on the floor. She tried to get dressed quickly, before those sisters came back and drug her off to wherever they'd taken Evelyn. Picking up her cup, she slipped out of the tent and into the blazing white light of morning. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust from the dim coccoon of her cloth-haven. The bustle of activity jolted noisely around her; in the midst of native gibberish and lowing animals, Gretchen picked out the exasperated notes of natural-spoken English. She scanned the village until her eyes caught sight of Jonathan and O'Connell.

"I said _four_, you imbecile! Four! I only want_ four_--not a whole bloody herd--"

She snorted, walking slowly towards her previous night's companions with even steps, careful not to upset the prized liquid sloshing in her cup. She glanced up again, meeting Jonathan's disgruntled face as he dragged a set of camels behind him.

"Morning," O'Connell greeted, pushing the sun-kissed locks of brown hair out of his face. Gretchen nodded, taking a sip of coffee. The opposite man slapped her shoulder to get her attention.

"Now, love, can you believe four of these stinking beasts would cost--"

The American grunted an incoherent warning, and Jonathan let out his losses with a sigh. "You know, we probably could've gotten 'em for free. All we had to do was give him your sister."

Gretchen smiled; her English friend laughed. "Yes...awfully tempting, wasn't it?"

She looked up to see O'Connell's reaction, but the tall, strapping man was far off. He gazed into the distance, and she tilted her head in interest, following his eyes to the distracting object. Gretchen sighed; even if she was at her best--at a healthy weight and well-kept--she wouldn't look that good in native garb.

"Awfully..."

Evelyn approached them, a coy smile set helplessly into her pretty features. Gretchen decided to rescue the moment from awkward obscurity. The way O'Connell and Jonathan were gaping ... well, no one would be speaking for a matter of minutes.

"Well, thanks," she managed strangely, not really looking at any of them. "I'm sure everyone else is on the way."

Jonathan tore his shocked eyes away from his sister to give Gretchen a smile. "We'll see you in Hamunapatra."

She snorted, mumuring, "We'll see."

Gretchen started back for the tent slowly. Quick footsteps followed her.

"Wait!"

She glanced up to meet Jonathan's strangely nervous gaze. He forced a quick, nervous smile and rest his hand on her shoulder. She glanced down at this unusual gesture, and he followed her eyes, quickly retracting his touch. Something in her stomach dropped like disappointment, and she could not place why.

"Well," he breathed. His shoulders jerked with a little shrug. "Good luck, then."

She almost smiled. "Thanks...You, too."

He smiled, also, dropping his head in a nod. He turned and left her without another word, hurriedly rejoining his companions. Gretchen watched him walk away, but he didn't look over his shoulder at her again. With a sigh, she decided to finish off her coffee and wait. In her circumstances, she really had nothing else to do. She supposed she could sleep, but she wasn't entirely tired.

The minutes passed by like days. She watched O'Connell and all of them leave, watched their forms lurching on the humped backs of the odd desert beasts. She watched the American Legionnaire with a thoughtfulness she wasn't completely aware of. She studied his tall, straight-backed form, and the bronzed muscles bulging with use in his arms. She studied the off-white color of his shirt, and the sweat stains soaking the fabric. She tried to remember her night with him, and tried to remember what about it had made him so memorable. She tried to remember if it was just his eyes, or more. Before she could even consider this for very long, though, she noticed a bustle occuring with the same man that had sold Jonathan the camels. Uneasy relief tilted her senses as Gretchen approached the crowd of natives and vocal Westerners. She pushed through the mess of sweating people and horses to Daniels. He was in some kind of verbal tryst with Burns, and she had to touch his elbow to get his attention. He whirled around and glared at her with feral eyes.

"Hell do you want?"

She forced a little smile, lifting her hair from her neck. "I'm coming with you, I thought--"

He snorted loudly. "You can forget it. Deal's off. You're fired."

Gretchen took a breath, ignoring the threatening glint in his dark gaze. "So you're going to leave me here. Just like that?"

Daniels's jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists at his side. "That was my granddaddy's pistol. He was one 'a the first sheriffs in the West and that gun was made special for him. Now it's at the bottom 'a the goddamn Nile River, and it's your fault. So _yeah_, I'm leavin' ya. And I don't give a rat's ass in hell what happens to you."

She took a step back, nodding slowly. "Okay, then. Just give me the money for the past two nights and you never have to see me again."

Gretchen wasn't going to be unreasonable; she wasn't going to make a fuss. She knew he would sooner beat her to death than give her the money he owed, but she figured it was worth a shot anyway. He shook his head, spitting a wad of tobacco juice uncomfortably close to her feet.

"You ain't gettin' shit from me."

She took a breath, turning to struggle back through the workers. Another American voice stopped her.

"Well then I want her," Henderson was saying, almost conversationally to his stewing friend. "Don't feel right leavin' her here all alone after draggin' her down the river. And I wouldn't mind the company."

Gretchen could see the tent where she had slept the previous night, and sighed with relief at the blond cowboy's words. If he was anywhere near as generous as Daniels, well--

"You hire that broad and you ain't no friend 'a mine."

That seemed a little juvenile, but Gretchen was too focused on her crashing hopes to examine that for long. The angry man rose his voice above the general noise to be sure all in his company could hear him.

"Any 'a you hire her, and you're fired."

The prostitute half-expected the crowd to part after such a melodramatic exclamation, but rather, a hand caught her arm and held her at a stop.

"I would like to employ your services."

Everyone was looking now. The whole ordeal seemed so heavily dramatized that Gretchen found herself wanting to laugh. She glanced at the renegade who dared ignite Daniels's already abbreviated temper, and her jaw went slack with the rest of them. Could this situation get any more ridiculous? Or was that monocled tight-ass from the ship really gripping her arm in his long, slender fingers?

His much shorter employer strode over to the long-faced Englishman, glaring up at him in rage.

"Beggin' your pardon?"

The professor sniffed, staring down the American with unblinking eyes. "How does three hundred for the entire trip sound?"

The pair of them gazed at each other: Daniels sizzling with a threat and the monocled man coolly challenging it; a perfect situation to raise the price. Gretchen let out a nervous breath.

"He was going to pay me five hundred."

Without even a thought. "He is an idiot. Three hundred dollars."

Gretchen licked her lips, glancing anxiously at her previous employer from time to time. She opened her mouth to accept, but Daniels's patience had reached its termination.

"You're gonna get your ass fired, Chamberlain."

"It's no difference to me," the taller man retorted smoothly. "I'm not the one in need of an egyptologist."

Daniels breathed smoke. "Fuck you, Professor. Our guide knows all about Hamunaptra."

Beni forced a nervous grin, beginning to sputter an argument. He didn't need to; Chamberlain had taken complete, collected control of the situation. "Don't be a fool, Mr. Daniels. That conning twit can barely write his own name, much less decipher ancient hieroglyphics."

A heavy silence filled the slim space between the two men. Burns was the voice of reason. "C'mon, Daniels. We got five hundred dollars on this deal!"

Daniels studied the professor a moment longer before shooting a deadly gare at Gretchen. "You better stay the hell away from me next couple 'a days."

Gretchen almost told him he didn't have to worry about that.


	9. Devil's Rhetoric

**Devil's Rhetoric**

Daniels refused to purchase another animal -- no matter how sickly and underpriced--for Gretchen's transportation, and Chamberlain was riding, of _all _things, a donkey. He offered to pay off one of the diggers to stay back so that she could have his horse, but she had adamently refused. The New Yorker had never ridden one of the beasts a day in her life alone, unless one counted the aging gray pony a tired carney led by the halter at Coney Island when she was six. She had no knowledge of the secret language between horse and rider -- of the communication through gentle urging and slight hand movements that kept the animal obedient and willing. After a few minutes more of indecision, the professor begrudgingly handed Beni a couple bills and Gretchen was hoisted up behind him atop his large, smelling camel.

Their journey began just as the desert heat started to rise from the sands. The sizzling waves blurred the horizon and the white sun throbbed mercilessly overheard. The company followed Beni's camel in a loose line; Chamberlain stayed towards the front with Burns and Henderson. Because Gretchen was astride the camel, and because he was still nursing his grudge, Daniels drifted towards the back, saying very little. The natives picked up conversations amongst themselves in their strange language, but remained, for the most part, quiet. The heat weighed down on them like exhaustion and fatigue; it couldn't be much after noon, and Gretchen already felt as if she might fall into a deep sleep. She tried picking up small talk with Chamberlain, but he proved rather bland. It didn't take long for her to figure that he'd hired her, not for the pleasure of her company, but to sour Daniels's mood. The professor thought very highly of himself--he told her so in an eternity's long drone about his accomplishments at Oxford--and the diminutive American must have insulted or cheapened his esteem. Chamberlain frowned and swatted at flies with irritated little huffs; the man was wound so tight and so ridiculously consumed with himself that Gretchen figured he was probably physically incapable of having sex with her or anyone else. She decided he had a nice, plain wife back in London or wherever, and that she messed around with his colleagues. He was that type. Gretchen had known, at one point or another, every type.

The Americans proved even less relatable. Burns and Henderson at least had personality, and they cracked a joke now and then, but Gretchen didn't understand them. They would make some comment or remark about Harrison or the Cubs or Jack Dempsey or Marion Davies, and have a rollicking laugh over it, and she wouldn't have the slightest inclination why. She'd made a few attempts to relate to their exclusive culture, first through geography (but neither one of them had ever been to New York, and, according to Henderson, neither of them planned to), then through heritage (but they were both German Lutheran--well, Henderson was half-Swedish--but either way, it meant that neither American had suffered endless nights of cabbage or knew a grandfather's tale of the Blight). She made her last attempt through sports by casually invoking the Yankees. Both were die-hard Cubs fans and informed her, with blatant arrogance, that the Yankees could go to hell, and if she thought they were still worth a shit now that the Great Bambino was hitting for the Red Sox, well, she could go to hell right along with them. Gretchen thought that was a little overenthusiastic, but said nothing as they drifted back towards Daniels to talk baseball.

Beni was laughing at her. It wasn't exactly full-out amusement, but snickering, certainly. She huffed a sigh, tilting her head over his shoulder.

"What's your problem?"

He shook his head with a nonchalant shrug. "How does it feel to be an Egyptian?"

Gretchen glared at the back of his neck. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He grunted snidely, ridiculously pleased. "I don't know. Why don't you ask those Americans about your Yankees again and see if you can figure it out?"

She hit him upside his head, her face contorting with disgust. Irritated, she wiped his sweat off on her skirt. "You're such an idiot."

"Who's an idiot?" he retorted, reaching around to smack her on the leg in retaliation. "I wasn't the one pretending to know what they were talking about."

Gretchen let out a sigh. "What would you know about it?"

"More than you," Beni's nerve-grating sing-song came back. "I know you're a reject. Just like the diggers. Just like me."

She shoved the pangs of truth down into a number place. "You're a reject because you smell bad and talk funny."

He imitated her tone in an incoherent whine. "Oh, yes. That's funny. Much like that actor Henderson and Burns were talking about. What was his name again?"

Gretchen took a breath to throw a comment back at him, but he easily interceded.

"What was that? You do not know? You have not heard of him because...why is it?" he waited a short, mocking pause. "Oh, yes. Because you live in _Egypt!"_

She sighed loudly. "You have to be a bastard all the time. You just can't help yourself; you're not happy unless you're annoying as hell."

Beni laughed easily. "Perhaps. But I am still the only person here you have to talk to, and this is still my camel."

"It's Daniels's camel," she corrected, her tone dark.

"If it was truly Daniels's camel, you would be walking right now."

Gretchen leaned back, irritation pulsing in her veins. She realized then why she only spent short amounts of time with the Hungarian thief. She took a few deep breaths and squinted at the horizon--at the nothingness and the promise of nothingness that stretched before them like the gaping mouth of Hell. She turned her gaze reluctantly to the forgiving black length of Beni's shirt, allowing the neutral, dark color to ease her dazzled eyes.

"You know we are in the same place, though," he whispered suddenly. She leaned foward, despite the heat, to hear him better. "No matter what, we are worthless to both of them."

It took Gretchen a moment to realize who he was speaking of.

"The natives hate us because we are white, and the whites hate us because we are native. They don't want us."

She swallowed difficultly, leaning back again. "Don't go kidding yourself. I don't want you, either."

His shoulders rose and fell in a mysterious shrug. "Then it is unfortunate that I am all you've got."

Gretchen caught the glint of his eye as he glanced back at her. Her mouth gaped, uncertain of what to say. She forced a laugh, though her heart was too heavy with something darkly truthful in his words to mean it. "Some bum deal I got."

Beni might have smiled. "We were both cheated. What do I want with a used-up whore?"

She looked down, a pain zinging through her body. What, indeed. If a half-witted thief like Gabor could figure out her worthlessness, then what use was she to anybody else? His words were slowly pulling together, and she was beginning to make sense of them. Not too many people were in their plight; that was true. They were both white people living on the bottom rung of a society that was supposed to be run by them. They were both isolated from the nations they supposedly claimed; they were the tourists that stayed too long. They didn't belong to their mother countries and they did not belong to Egypt; maybe they belonged to each other. Gretchen's stomach twisted sickeningly.

"Do you want to marry me when we get back?"

Her head jerked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he stared steadily ahead. His tone was unreadable; she wished she knew if he was joking. A moment later, she didn't care.

"No."

He snorted. "Neither do I. But if we do not marry each other, we probably won't get married at all."

Gretchen shook her head. "Like you want to get married."

"I don't want to die alone."

She breathed an irritated sigh. "Then kill youself in a marketplace."

Beni pulled on the rein, trying to slow the stubborn animal they rode. The sun was pulling at an excrutiating, slow pace towards the horizon. It was nearing the end of another day.

"I'm only saying that you're not good enough for anyone else, so you might as well marry me."

Gretchen glared at the back of his head, her fingers curling into fists that would not be raised--her mind humming with violent acts that would not be realized. She blinked hard a few times, and she really wasn't sure why. Taking a deep breath to check her anger, she glanced skyward and changed the subject.

"Are we going to set up camp or what? I should probably go screw the professor."

Beni lifted himself from the seat of the saddle, rising to a stand with his feet firmly planted in the Arabic equivalent to stirrups. He glanced over the weary travelers, trying to get an approving glance from one of the Americans. His eyes flitted to hers for a moment.

"If I had money, you would marry me."

She glared up at him. "I'd marry anyone with money."

A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So would I. But you would make me happy."

Gretchen let out an exasperated sigh. "Why the hell is that?"

"Because all I would have to do is give you a little money and you would always put out."

She seriously considered pushing him off the camel. "All I'd have to do is give you a little more money and you'd sleep in a different room."

He laughed outright, waving Burns over. "A match made in heaven."

"We're _not _getting married," Gretchen pronounced firmly, her patience nearing its end. The sound of hoofbeats neared them. She hadn't realized how far their camel had drifted from the group.

"That's because we do not have the money," he winked at her, glancing at Burns.

"And we won't," she told him pointedly. "Ever."

Beni settled back into the saddle, patting her leg in consolation. "Probably not. If I ever get the money, I am marrying a blonde with breasts twice your size."

Gretchen snorted. "If I ever get the money, I'm having you killed."


	10. Daniels's Bet

**Daniels's Bet**

Gretchen woke up with a jolt for what seemed to be the millionth time over the course of the last twelve hours or so. Daniels and Henderson had vehemently refused to waste time setting up camp for the night, and instead ordered that the whole company ride all through the night to stay on schedule. At first, she had figured it really made no difference to her; she'd slept sitting up before, and there was no reason she needed to be awake. After about twenty minutes with her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clenched against the jerky, rocking gait of the camel, she decided that sleep would be virtually unattainable.

She managed to snooze on and off, her mind fading in and out of the same, strange dream. Over and over again, whether she grasped ten minutes or a few seconds of rest, the same event played out completely in her head. She dreamed she was back at the brothel, walking down the hall. It felt like daytime, even though the corridor was dark and grim. She was hurrying for something...she didn't know what, but she wasn't paying much attention to anything else, because her shoulder caught on someone. She turned to see who it was, and saw Meela. Every time, she expected the Egyptian harlot to act the way she would in reality--she flinched in preparation for a harsh word or even a fist. But instead Meela would look her over, her lips pursed, and say, "I know why you're looking for me." Then Gretchen's eyes would snap open, and she'd mutter a curse because she'd woken up again.

This time, though, the sky was light gray and waiting eagerly for morning. She figured she might as well stay awake now, and looked about her with vague interest. Their procession had separated some, but as other riders began to stumble back to consciousness, the group pulled closer together. Gretchen leaned around to get a glance at the horizon, and groaned to find it even and lonely.

"When are we going to get to this ancient city place?" she demanded in a hoarse tone. Beni glanced over his shoulder with bloodshot eyes, breathing intentionally into her face. Her nose wrinkled, and she drew back from him irritably. "God, you're gross."

He grinned wearily. "It is all part of my charm."

Gretchen snorted but didn't really say anything; it was much too early and she had slept for an entirely too short a time to bother with a retort. Breathing a sigh, she twisted to the right and left, hearing her spine pop all the way up. She caught a glimpse of the good professor yawning, his monocle in one hand as he rubbed the gritty sleep from his lashes. She forced a little smile, gaining his empty stare.

"Good morning," she managed coyly. "Did you sleep alright?"

Chamberlain sniffed, blinking heavily and giving his donkey a good kick. "What do you think?"

She ran her tongue over her dry lips, holding on to his gaze a moment longer. "I wish I could have made it better for you."

The camel lurched beneath her, jerking Gretchen back with a gasp. Instinctively, her hands gripped Beni's hips, struggling to regain her balance. Her head whipped around to face forward, a reactive "holy shit" slipping through her lips. She opened her mouth to yell insult at the irritating little Hunyak behind her near-topple, but noticed the sudden rise of a dune beneath the animal's toes that could not be avoided.

"Whore," Beni muttered with a satisfied little smirk. Gretchen let go of his body and slapped his shoulder.

"I hate you," she retorted, resettling herself as the camel trudged up the sandy side. He laughed.

"I'll remember that the next time we--"

He paused, and a little snort slipped through Gretchen's nostrils. "What? When'd you get all proper? 'The next time we' what?"

Beni shushed her, glancing over his shoulder before turning his attention forward again. She leaned around his body, trying to catch a glimpse of what was so very important. Something in her heart changed its rhythm, but she wasn't sure why. In a small huddle, watching the horizon with curious interest, O'Connell's group rode towards them. Slipping down the opposite side of the dune, their camel hit flat, even ground. The Americans and Chamberlain crowded up beside them in an intimidating group; the heavy, continuous footfall of hard hooves on packed sand echoed quietly in the desert morning as Beni jerked up on the rein of his animal, desperate to make it heed him. The two companies slowed to an uneasy stop in front of one another.

"Good morning, my friend," the Hungarian guide greeted snidely. O'Connell jerked his head in a nod. Gretchen peered over Beni's shoulder to meet his calm, unreadable eyes. She blinked, turning her gaze away.

"What the hell we doin'?" Daniels smashed the precarious silence with a buffoon's accuracy. Gretchen could feel her Hunyak "friend" tense irritably.

"Patience, my good barat'm, patience."

She snorted. _That_ was some sound advice to the most tempermental member of their gold-digging crew.

"Remember our bet, O'Connell--first one to the city."

Gretchen glanced back and noticed Henderson trying to speak around an enormous wad of chewing tobacco. She wondered vaguely how long he'd been awake before fishing that out of his pocket.

"Five hundred cash bucks," he reminded with a little smirk. Gretchen's stomach soured considerably at the mention of the sum. Five hundred dollars that could have been hers, if it wasn't for Daniels being a complete psychopath. Now she was down to the promise of a measely three hundred (which, granted, on the usual scale would not have seemed so bad) from a cheapskate profressor.

"A hundred 'a them bucks is yours if you help us win that bet."

Gretchen looked up with interest, but quickly realized such a comment was not aimed at her. Beni very nearly rolled his eyes; it seemed that even a rat with his appetite for money had his boundaries. A sleepless night atop an impudent camel had unpuckered his usual kiss-ass lips, and he answered the offer with a weary, sarcastic:

"Oh. My pleasure."

She squinted at the Americans, catching a not-so-friendly glare from Daniels before turning her attention back to the horizon. For whatever reason, the guides were entranced by the flat, usual line of sand and sky.

"Hey, O'Connell," Beni murmured with a personal smirk, "nice camel."

Gretchen's brow furrowed, and a scoff escaped her throat. She leaned forward, whispering in his ear. "What the hell does that even mean?"

He rolled his eyes, motioning towards his American associate's inferior beast. "Take a look at that thing. It probably hasn't eaten in three days."

She sighed, leaning back again. "Are we going to get going or what?"

"Wait for it."

Gretchen turned, expecting to meet the Legionnaire's deep azure gaze again, but his bewitching eyes were transfixed on something before them. Evelyn piped up with the question the prostitute had waiting in her mind:

"For what?"

O'Connell took a breath, running his tongue over his lips. "We're about to be shown the way."

Beni's hand tightened on the rein, the digits of his other hand curling around a riding crop. O'Connell shifted his weight, staring intently at the sandy expansion in front of them. Gretchen swallowed curiously, following his eyes to the same, boring horizon. Beni's gray-blue glance flitted to hers for a mere second.

"Are you ready to see something?"

She snorted, locking her eyes on the desert. His entire body tensed.

"I mean _really_ see something."

Gretchen took a breath that could not quite escape her throat. Before her eyes, the line between land and sky began to wave and buckle as if with the heat of day. The clouds stained with the rising sun shifted and blurred, kissing the sands before floating up again in a continuous flow. The orange of morning lifted like a curtain; the fuzzy chaos on the horizon focused into clear lines and vaguely familiar shapes.

She shook her head slowly, her mind grasping for words. The Americans, so usually inarticulate, expressed the thousand, shocked thoughts swarming within her skull. _Would you look at that ... _Gretchen could not even find it in her to blink. _Can you believe it?_ And she could not find the logic to contradict the scene. _Hamunaptra._

She didn't have to see Beni's face to know he was smirking. "Hang on tight, baby."

Something sharp and stinging bit her leg, and the camel lunged forward at Beni's prodding. He attacked its backside with the vicious crop, landing more than enough lashes against Gretchen's body. She bit down on her lip, wrapping her arms around his starving torso fearfully. The lumpy gait of the galloping animal made her bounce dangerously in the saddle. She closed her eyes against the gritty wind, digging her nails into the thinnest fabric of Beni's shirt.

"Can't you slow it down?" she managed to yell, trying to wrap her legs over his. She didn't have to look down to know it was a much harder fall from this height than from one of the other pack animals. The fantasy of a sorry, slow horse under her awkward control slipped through her thoughts for a split second before Beni's voice and the camel's step jerked her back to reality.

"I could use a hundred dollars," he shouted back, striking the animal again. Gretchen gasped painfully.

"Then would you mind _not_ nailing me with that goddamn whip!"

He laughed, squinting at the glimmering ruins ahead of them. "I've never minded nailing you."

They were pulling closer to another rider; Gretchen glanced over and realized that they were racing beside O'Connell, and that Beni was guiding the camel forcefully into the American's path. She looked between the two ex-Legionnaires; between the tall, handsome man and the slight, desperate weasel. She swallowed difficultly, apprehension knotting in her stomach. Somehow, she knew that, even without the stimulant of five hundred dollars being dangled overhead, the two of them would still be in this position -- would still be taking their eyes off the prized city every few moments to glare at one another. She took a breath, and Beni raised his crop against his rival.

In two swings, O'Connell gripped the black stick in his muscled hand and threw it to the ground. His teeth gritted in irritation, and he reached for the Hungarian. Gretchen turned her wide, pleading eyes to her fellow American, her mouth gaping for the right words. He caught her gaze and sighed, uncurling his fists from Beni's clothing.

"Do you know how to ride these things?" he shouted, nodding at the camel. Gretchen swallowed, shaking her head. He sighed, extending a hand to her. "Here!"

She gripped Beni's shirt tighter, releasing O'Connell's enigmatic gaze to chance a look at the sand far below them. She shook her head. "I can't!"

The Legionnaires shared a look, and O'Connell took a breath for patience. "Hey. Look at me."

Gretchen's large, dark eyes jerked up reluctantly, and he trapped her in the depths of his endlessly blue gaze. Why did they have to be so surreal? Nobody else had eyes like that -- she was sure of it. Nobody...

Her fingers curled around his palm, but his hand slipped quickly down to just below her wrist. He held her in an unbreaking stare, nodding towards her other hand. Slowly, she released Beni and pulled her arm from him, gasping O'Connell's wrist. He took a breath, his head inclining slightly. Gretchen nodded, her eyes flitting to Beni for moment. He shook his head desperately, gnawing on his lips.

"Don't do it--"

But O'Connell pulled her off of the opposite camel, slamming her body against the saddle. A painful gasp caught in her throat as he lifted her slight weight up; lifting her leg as far as she could, she was slung into a sitting position behind him. He tore his arm free from her grasp, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his body. Satisfied, O'Connell gripped the Hungarian's collar in his fist and jerked him off-balance.

"So long, Beni!"

The thief dropped to the sand unceremoniously; Gretchen's heart was pounding too loudly and her mind was too blurred to think about his safety. She pulled herself against O'Connell, struggling to catch her breath in the whipping wind.

"Thanks," she sighed finally in his ear. He glanced over his shoulder, apparently satisfied with Beni's fate.

"Don't mention it," he returned, twisting around to face forward again. "I never hurt anybody that doesn't deserve it."

Gretchen swallowed, her arms trembling. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to be over. Suddenly, O'Connell let out a holler. Distantly, she could hear Jonathan's joyful voice. As the camel's legs gradually slowed, she peered around O'Connell's bulk to watch Evelyn cross triumphantly through the ruins' gates.

"Doesn't that figure?" she muttered under her breath. O'Connell looked back at her, almost smiling.

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

She shook her head, but said nothing as the animal trotted haphazardly into the long-dead city. Whose side, indeed.


	11. Death's City

**Death's City**

Gretchen blinked in the sizzling sunlight, breathing a lethargic sigh. Even under the shelter of Chamberlain's lean-to, the heat was unbearable. She squinted at the diggers, sympathy almost pricking her spine. After all, this was their own fault. She knew the kind of men who signed up for digging expeditions. Certainly, some of them were just hoping to provide a measely existence for their enormous families, but there were others who capitalized on it. Who used foreign fascination as an excuse to escape their starving children and nagging wives.

She glanced above the hard-working natives to the Americans and Chamberlain. They were discussing something; she couldn't believe Daniels' patience was holding up so well. Personally, Gretchen was already sick of this place, and she'd only been there for a few hours. Their entire camp was giddy, and she couldn't help but dread the ride back to Cairo, when everyone would be upset and disappointed. If Hamunaptra really was everything the legends said it was, someone else would have gotten to it by now. It simply didn't seem historically just that someone like Beni Gabor (and, granted, O'Connell) should find it when millenia of assumedly intelligent individuals had been searching for the same thing.

Chamberlain caught her glance, and she smiled. He looked away, his mouth set in the same, superior frown as he turned his attention back to Henderson. Gretchen would have rolled her eyes, had it not been so very bright. She couldn't understand--at least not in entirity--why he was so disgusted with her. Perhaps it was a front, because the highly-educated were supposed to harbor an irritating disdain for the lower classes in general, and in her present occupation, she was the lowest of the low. At the same time, though, the high class that chose to go slumming usually didn't regard her so harshly. She wondered if he had any intentions whatsoever to sleep with her. And if he didn't intend on sleeping with her, then he very well may not have intended to pay her, either.

Gulping nervously, Gretchen pulled herself onto her feet, shielding her eyes with her hand and watching the diggers make a break-through in the wall. Henderson let out a satisfied holler. She knew the chances of this place being complete ransacked were ridiculously high, but she also knew she had to be around to "discover" something. She had to have a case for some of the treasure--or even some of the junk. She could not come out of this whole expedition empty-handed, not with the threat of no payment looming over her head. She sighed at her unfortunate situation; this pretty much shot to hell her previous decision to sleep through the heat of the day. Heart pumping, she stood awkwardly on the outskirts, watching the Americans jump from their perch to the mouth of the opening, waiting eagerly for Chamberlain to find his way down. Beni lingered not so far away, taking a final drag of a cigarette. Reluctantly, Gretchen made her way over to him.

"Do you have another one of those?"

He shrugged. "Yes."

Gretchen glared a little. "Can I have one?"

"No."

Beni rubbed his nose with the back of his hand idly, and she suddenly noticed the red, flared quality of his nostrils. He blinked his watery eyes a few times, and hers widened in amazement.

"You have coke, too."

He let out a quiet sigh. "You can not have that, either."

Gretchen shook her head. "I don't want any."

Beni stared at the obnoxiously triumphant Americans. "Trust me. You will."

She snorted, turning her attention to the large opening. Swallowing uneasily, she met Chamberlain's dark, empty eyes. She barely caught a glimmer in his bland gaze; it appeared as if, by divine miracle, he was excited about something, or at the very least mildly moved. Gretchen supposed everybody had a passion--even staunchy British educated types. As he stepped over to the opening, reaching eagerly for one of the torches Burns was lighting, she wondered vaguely what it was she was passionate about.

Chamberlain motioned them forward, and she slipped through the diggers to stand near to him. He glanced at her. "Here is something truly incredible."

She nodded politely, commanding her feet to match his careful, unhurried steps. As the darkness enveloped them, she reached for his elbow, wrapping her fingers firmly about his arm. In the flickering gold firelight, she caught his surprised eyes. They flicked to her hand, but quickly focused on the wall. Gretchen wasn't sure if it was simply the poor light, but it certainly appeared as if Professor Chamberlain was smiling. Perhaps it was sick and misplaced, but at least the man cared about something. Her stomach dropped a little. What did she care about?

The scuffle of feet behind them echoed off the ancient mudbrick. All around them, the scrawlings of a dead language and dead people danced with a forgotten message--gold and dark and haunted. Her gut kept twisting uneasily, and she wasn't entirely sure why. Here, the old Egyptians cared. They painstakingly built a city, carved their story into its walls. The weight of her self-induced apathy was leaning heavily on her bones, her joints. She was in this place, and she didn't care. She held fast to Chamberlain, but she didn't care about him. Her body was rotting to nothing because she didn't care for it. Nothing and no one mattered; why was she still here? Why was she still pushing onward?

"There is something," Chamberlain whispered suddenly, jerking Gretchen out of her painful revelation. Her eyes flashed to his, and his feet stopped. Voices bounced around them, unintelligeable and unpercieved. She took a quick sigh, glancing around for an explanation. The Americans sifted forward, slipping past them to find out for themselves. Gretchen's grip on Chamberlain tightened; they followed closely behind.

"What is it?" she murmured quietly. He didn't quite meet her eyes, pulling closer to Henderson. The anxious click of a dozen guns or more echoed in her quickened heartbeats. Gretchen ran her tongue over her lips, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. If they were about to meet something dangerous--if her life was about to be ripped from her grasp--would it make a difference? Her breath was loud in her own ears. Somewhere, there was a reason. She had to figure it out; she had to--

Four wide, fearful sets of eyes met theirs--another smaller artillery rose to meet their own. A relieving sigh audibly filled the dry, stuffy air. Gretchen peered over Henderson's shoulder, colliding with those same, endless azure expansions. Her breath caught in her throat. Maybe it was something there, the blue. Not so much the color blue itself, because the shade of the desert sky trapped her beneath its endless dome--suffocating her into submission. No, it was _his_ blue. The sort of hue that she was sure existed nowhere else, and yet...there it was, before her, alive and promising and real. Maybe it was the dream of that blue, the hunger for something that she wanted to be true.

The guns were raised again, and she felt the threat of death in this city named for it. His eyes were off of her now; the blue no longer surrounded her, and she was alone in the crowded darkness, praying she would make it out alive.

"Children," clipped, articulate, cautious words salved the tension around them, "if we're going to play together, we must learn to share. There are other places to dig."

O'Connell watched Evelyn steadily; her gaze working him over as if by a forgotten spell. He replaced his guns in disarmed masculinity, and a feeling of smug victory ruled over the air. Gretchen struggled for her breath in the cramped compartment. She felt death around her, felt the collapsing walls of a grave. She opened her mouth to take in more air, to keep her mind from fading into the dark threat around her. She vaguely heard a question of concern...

"Are you alright?"

The uninterested words echoed in the darkness of her open eyes. Gretchen collapsed.


	12. Three Americans and a Booby Trap

**Three Americans and a Booby Trap**

Reality glittered back to Gretchen with a hard slap in her face. A whelp escaped her lips as she blinked to consciousness. The features of the blurry form sharpened in her line of vision; she glared darkly at the impatient, weaselly face.

"Are you awake?"

She reached a trembling hand to her forehead, trying to rub away the aching between her eyes. "Sort of..."

Beni glanced back at the ruins eagerly, running a slimy tongue over his chapped lips. "Great. I am going back now."

Gretchen pulled herself to a seat gingerly. Her fingers felt detached from her control as they roamed over her stinging cheek. "Why the hell did you hit me?"

The Hungarian thief rose to his feet, the joints in his legs cracking in protest. His body cast a relieving shadow over her, and his eyes gazed down in momentary superiority. "Water is too valuable."

She snorted, rubbing her temple plaintively. "Aren't you sweet."

Beni shrugged. "What can I say?"

"How about 'good bye'?" Gretchen muttered irrtably. Her throat felt dry, and every word was coming out hoarse. Her companion glanced at the ruins again.

"I am supposed to tell you to stay here," he informed, backing away from her. "I am going back."

She glared at him, pulling herself haphazardly to her feet. The sun glinted harshly in her eyes as his silhouette slipped off of her. "What am I supposed to do? Just sit out here?"

His shoulders rose and fell; he was almost to the opening. "Think of some names for our children."

Gretchen reached down her leg, the quick motion awakening strange, glinting little dots in her vision. She slipped her shoe from her foot and hurled it at him. "I can think of a few names for _you!"_

Beni laughed, slipping easily into the ancient doorway. Frustrated and hot, the prostitute glanced across the sand, taking note that her worn, leather heel had fallen unsatisfyingly far from hitting its intended target. With a sigh, she struggled to take a step, the rush of air unsettling those strange dots again. The edges of her vision were black and pixelated to the grainy color of the scene before her. Blinking hard a few times, Gretchen willed the fuzziness away. When she opened her eyes, she could see nothing.

_"Anck-su-namun..."_

She let out a scream, frightened of the dark voice and its strange utterance. The blood pumped faster in her veins as her anxiety mounted with each passing second. She stared persistently into the black, her mind reeling with a phrase of panic: _I'm blind! I'm blind! I'm blind!_ Gretchen's mind felt dizzy and her stomach churned with the want to vomit. She waved her arms, reaching for something to grasp before she would surely hit the simmering sand. She gulped down the bile rising in her throat, her fingers crawling up the sides of her face to clutch her hair and drag it off of her skin. She doubled over, swaying so hard, she was certain she was going to fall. A glimmer of bland, golden pebbles surfaced through the center of her blackened view; her heart leapt with the hope of seeing again. But the sand faded into a strange form, a set of almost familiar eyes. _Anck-su-namun._ Squeezing her eyes shut, her jaw dropped to allow herself to vomit; she gagged but nothing came up. Shaking her weary head, she opened her eyes to the darkness again. Her body leaned into it--she was falling head-first into awake unconscious, and she knew she was going to hit the ground sooner or later.

Or not at all.

Something rough and strong gripped her elbow and tugged her in the opposite direction. She was enraptured in the stability of invisible arms, being held upright against her own ability and understanding. She leaned back, her spine colliding with the satisfying warmth of something solid and breathing. She felt the scratchy, coarse texture of a beard against her ear, and the soft, moist quality of gentle, patient lips:

"Easy," a quiet, accented voice instructed her. "You must lay down, and have a drink."

By some unnatural force, she was lowered to the sand, cradled in the soft, sun-soaked grains. Something cold and metal was pressed against her lips, and she opened them. A rush of cool water splashed into her mouth. Gretchen gulped it uneasily, her eyelids fluttering fervently. Her lashes seemed to sweep away the blackness; the fuzziness cleared into a vaguely-concerned face. A little gasp caught in the back of her throat as she met the patient black eyes. Pressing her lips together, she watched him replace his cantene and flit his gaze at the ruins.

"You are not alone here."

She nodded slowly, staring at the enigmatic black markings across his cheekbones and forehead. Gretchen wondered if he recognized her. "No."

He shook his head, looking at her again. He brought the cantene to her lips again. "This is a cursed place."

Gretchen eagerly swallowed another gulp of water. "You could probably say that again."

He inclined his head, gazing at her steadily with unblinking eyes. They were making her nervous. She flipped through the vague facts of her mind, trying to recall who he was. Ghazi had said something ... something about a prince, and then a strange Egyptian word._ Med-Jai._ Was that his name?

"You're Med-Jai?" she asked carefully. His brow furrowed in surprise. He seemed to frown in thought for a silent moment, studying her features with accute interest. She watched his Adam's apple jerk uncomfortably as his stare meandered over her body and back up to her eyes.

"We have met," he pronounced finally, scratching the jet-colored curls at the nape of his neck. "I remember you."

Gretchen let out a sigh. "I guess you should. I was almost tribute."

He tilted his head, a sad smile pulling at his lips. "You are one of Ghazi's girls."

She felt awkward, lying on her back as he loomed over. Slowly, she pulled herself to a seat, shaking the sand out of her knotted locks. "Yeah...sorry I skipped out on your harem."

He looked into her eyes carefully. It felt as if he was searching for something in her empty, coffee-colored depths, but Gretchen didn't know what there was to be hoping for. She glanced out of the intensity of his gaze, feeling her heart thumping a little faster. He made her nervous, yet strangely, in such a way that did not awaken her fear. He did not seem to be the same man she had seen in the brothel. She focused on her cuticles stubbornly, but the invasion of his dark depths persisted against her face. He held the cantene just within her line of vision. Gretchen caught a glimpse of it, eagerly accepting the cool water container. He watched her take another drink.

"I was not going to take you," he told her, wrapping his fingers around the article she held out to him at arm's length. The calloused tips of his fingers brushed hers as he slipped the cantene from her grasp.

Gretchen's eyebrows jerked up. She looked out over the city's ruins, shaking her head at the irony. "What a waste."

He seemed to be smiling, though his lips were only slightly upturned, and his eyes were as stoic and calm as ever. "Are you better now?"

She nodded, jerking her gaze at his for an abbreviated chance at eye contact. "Yeah. Thanks. The last guy really wasn't much help..."

His focus was intent on her for another moment, as if he found it crucially important to be certain of her well-being. Gretchen swallowed, turning her eyes reluctantly to him again.

"Really. I'm fine."

He took a deep breath, pulling himself from the ground. "Very well, then."

Gretchen smiled politely, reaching a hand up towards him. "I'm Gretchen, by the way."

His tattooed palm encompassed her own in a Western hand shake. "Ardeth Bay."

His black depths scanned the ruins, his jaw set in determination. A ruthless sigh escaped his lips, and, without averting his gaze from the remains of Hamunaptra, he breathed a warning:

"The Med-Jai are attacking this camp tonight. Leave this place while you can."

Gretchen blinked her confusion, her stomach twisting with a shock of anxiety. "But--I don't even know the way--"

Ardeth was adamant. His eyes were on her again, but neither soft nor searching as before. They gleamed like a set of onyx swords or loaded black magnums, deadly serious and commanding:

"You must leave."

She swallowed, declining her head in a slow, difficult nod. Sympathy wavered precariously in his stern gaze, and something about the way he stood there, staring at her--as if he was using all his will to make her understand the weight of this mystery--made him look very tragic to her. He had a scimitar in his belt and tears in his eyes, and something strange inside of her was fascinated by the contradiction. He was a white knight dressed in black; a noble man with a vendetta. The burning breeze brought his pleading whisper to her ear:

"You must understand. The danger of this place is not worth the cost."

Gretchen glanced away, staring out over Hamunaptra with a new, horrified interest. She scanned the crumbling pillars and statues of old until her eyes came to rest on the tall, looming jackal-man on the other end of the city. He glowered over the ancient metropolis, silently threatening her and anybody else who would dare to presume entry to a municipality hallowed for the dead. She took in a deep breath, her stomach sore from so many threats of vomiting and anxiety. She glanced up to ask Ardeth about the jackal-headed man, or god--whatever he may be--but her swarthy savior was gone.

She ran her fingers through her hair, a pain throbbing somewhere deep in her skull. Her mind struggled to recreate him in her memory, even though he'd only recently left her presence. The Med-Jai were attacking tonight, he'd said. And then he had commanded her to leave. Why her? Why even show up at the camp if he had plans to destroy it? Gretchen mulled this over for a bit as she stumbled to the luggage. He had probably come to get the layout of the camps--to figure how big they were and how many of these "Med-Jai" it was going to take to drive them out, or...more likely, kill them all. Everyone was supposed to be below ground, treasure-hunting.

But why help her?

He could obviously tell she had been exhausted from the heat and claustrophobic conditions of the underground labyrinth. It was possible he was even aware she had lost her vision at that point. He could have easily avoided her altogether--allowed her to pass out and learn what he needed to of the two camps. With a sigh, she picked out Beni's knapsack and rifled through its contents. With a slight smile, she gripped a few cigarettes and shoved them into her pocket. She glanced inside, just to see what sort of things he had already managed to pick off of his esteemed employers, and her eyes caught a curious little pouch. With a sigh, she took that, too.

Well, even if it was in Ardeth's conscience to help her, he still was under no obligations to warn her about his planned attack. Gretchen snorted uneasily. A desert warrior oughtn't be so merciful, and something in her was simultaneously grateful and suspicious of his gesture.

Her thoughts were interrupted in a rather unceremonious fashion, however, but the haunting echo of screams from the gut of the city. Gretchen clenched her jaw, staring intently at the opening the diggers had carved out only that morning. Within minutes, the Americans, Beni, Chamberlain, and a handful of diggers rushed into the sunlight with pale faces and wild eyes. Burns struggled to maintain his balance and the professor escaped their company to quietly wrtech behind a pillar. A shaking breath escaped her lips as Henderson tripped over to her, fishing a flask out of one of the supply bags.

"What happened?" she was almost too scared to ask.

The blond cowboy shook his head in wonder, taking a much-need swig. "I don't...I don't know."

Gretchen glanced around for an explanation, noting the diggers huddled in a quivering group. One wept. Everything inside of her seemed to churn with nauseous dizziness. But Henderson was talking again:

"They just...melted. Right there..."

"It was a booby trap," Burns put in suddenly. Gretchen reached a hand to her head, Ardeth's word's echoing loud and foreboding in her ears:

_The danger of this place is not worth the cost._

She was going to get out of here, and fast.


	13. Ardeth's Warning

**Ardeth's Warning**

Gretchen knew that if she went to Beni, she was guaranteed a ride out of Hamunaptra. However, she reasoned a moment later, Beni was not the only person there that knew how to get back to Cairo, and between the rodent-like Hungarian and the dashing American, she figured the latter was more deserving of the Med-Jai's warning. As her company began to calm down over a bottle of whiskey, she slipped away to the opposite camp. A desert wind pushed passed her, whistling low and sad in her ears. Something like a shiver skittered up her spine, and she didn't like the strange, uneasy feeling that accompanied it. What was it about this place? What was so frightening, so eerie? Gretchen tried to shake the feeling as her steps quickened; she would be away from this hallowed city soon enough.

It was beginning to get dark. Gretchen's stomach twisted nervously; what if she didn't make it out of here in time? Surely Ardeth wouldn't kill her...She swallowed her discomfort and pushed the thought away. She wasn't going to take her chances.

Peaking around an ancient pillar, she noticed Jonathan and his sister bickering over how to start a fire. Snorting, her dark eyes scanned the area around their considerably smaller camp, trying to catch a glimpse of O'Connell. She bit her lip indecisively; if she waited here too much longer, one of the Carnahans was bound to notice her. And, while Gretchen felt badly about leaving them vulnerable to the Med-Jai attack, she didn't see much point in telling them about it if O'Connell should decide against her plan.

She glanced towards the horizon, staring at the dying sun with detatched interest. Her ragged fingernails dug at the ancient mudbrick mechanically, sending a little thread of dust on the cooling wind. She tried to imagine living in the desert. She struggled to picture herself falling asleep in a tent beneath a watchful set of onyx-colored eyes. Gretchen smiled at her own idiocy. Ardeth had said he was not going to take her away, anyway. And besides, she mused, he was a native. Natives treated their wives like shit--she'd seen it herself. Gretchen blinked a few times, adjusting her sight to the growing dark. Ardeth Bay. That wasn't even an Arabic name. Maybe his mother had been a white woman. Maybe marrying into the Med-Jai wasn't as bad...

She glared down at the sand and her own stupid thoughts. Seriously--_marry?_ What the hell was getting into her mind? She would do better for herself accepting Beni's proposal than living like a dog in the desert--and being treated like one, too. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Med-Jai didn't want her, anyway. He'd said so himself. He would have left her in Cairo. He probably had twelve wives, anyway. What did he want with a skinny prostitute?

And what did she want with a desert warrior, for that matter? Oh, certainly he thought he was too important and too lofty to take her back to his flea-bitten little camp, but didn't she know even better than him? Gretchen knew the best of Egypt--the city--and even that was shit in comparison to the worst of New York. Why would she want to make her life even more miserable? He could have his big, black horse and little goat hair tent without electricity or plumbing. She wanted nothing to do with it.

Gretchen's heart was racing, and something like anger and frustration was stirring in her veins...and she had no idea why. She took a deep breath, trying to regain herself. Her mind sifted through the red haze it had strangely become, trying to pick out the inciting incident: Ardeth Bay. All that over a man she spoke with for five minutes? Was she losing her mind?

A heavy hand on her shoulder made Gretchen flinch, whirling around to see who or what had touched her. In the darkness (Lord, when had it gotten so dark?) she picked out the wide, appologetic eyes of O'Connell. She smiled in relief, staring into the blueness for a moment before realizing the matter at hand. Her eyes widened suddenly, and she grabbed his suspenders, pushing him against the pillar. He stumbled against the ancient monument in surprise, staring at her in puzzlement.

"We're gonna be attacked," she whispered desperately. His brow furrowed, but the surprise melted from his azure orbs. He nodded quickly, taking out the revolvers from his shoulder holsters.

"Okay."

Gretchen's eyes got even wider, and she poked his chest urgently. "Don't you get it? We have to get out of here!"

O'Connell only shook his head. "I don't run away from a fight."

She punched his arm. "Are you insane or just stupid? It's like the boat--those same guys from the boat! Let's just go!"

Her fellow American glanced towards his camp, breathing a quiet sigh. "Look, she's the boss. I've got to do my job."

Gretchen glared. "And what? Get killed? I think this is an okay breach of contract!"

"She saved my life!" he blurted suddenly. He looked down. "I mean...that's not nothing, you know?"

Gretchen glanced away, running her tongue over her lips. Her stomach was sinking. She gripped O'Connell's hand suddenly, taking a breath.

"Well don't forget I tried to save your life too, okay?"

He stared at her, and even in the increasing blackness, Gretchen could see, or perhaps feel, his wonderment. She slipped her fingers from his hand. Her foot was lifted to take a step away when he gripped her wrist and pulled her back to him. She swallowed difficultly, feeling his eyes flitting from her gaze to her lips in the same way of the hundred men she'd known. Gretchen wasn't going to wait on his indecision. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers, pressing her lips against his. She felt his arms tense for a moment before relaxing against her body. His hands slid to her waist and pulled her closer, his tongue slipping between her lips. She took in a sharp breath, lost and confused but knowing...somehow, just knowing that every minute in his arms was safe. He held her for a moment before gently releasing her, pulling away from her embrace. She searched for his eyes but he was staring somewhere else; she could not read the expression on his face.

"Thanks, anyway," he murmured, hurrying towards his camp. Gretchen took a deep breath, leaning her forehead against the pillar numbly. Shaking her head, she slipped to her seat, leaning against the ancient structure thoughtlessly. She poked around the pockets of her skirt for one of the cigarettes she'd taken from Beni's knapsack after Ardeth had left her. She gripped a little pouch instead, pulling it from the confines of her clothing. Breathing a shaking sigh, she untied the pouch, squinting down at the benign white powder difficultly.

She had tried, for the most part, to stay away from drugs. Many of Ghazi's other girls were so dependent on cocaine or opium that they preferred to be paid in grams, rather than dollars and cents. It disgusted Gretchen, the way they threw money away on the kind of shit that would keep them in prostitution forever. She'd tried them, sure, but she had adamantly decided that even the best high wasn't worth screwing weirdos for the rest of her life.

A noise like rolling thunder was growing. She heard shouts and gunshots and screams. Gretchen swallowed difficultly, her eyes welling with hopeless tears. She was too late. She was going to be killed. Her breaths came quicker, more desperate. She needed to live, or at the very least, needed to not know it when she died. Digging her fingernail into the tiny mound, she brought the powder up to her nostril, taking a deep breath. Her whole mind buzzed, and she blinked rapidly a few times. The noise of battle was louder in her ears, and suddenly she didn't care. Dropping the cocaine, she pulled herself to her feet. Something told her she wasn't going to die, even if she was shot fifty times. Something told her she was never going to die, and she smiled. Stumbling over towards the chaos, she decided to see what was going on in the world of mortals.

Gretchen wandered through the firelit darkness easily, paying little attention to the action at hand. Her eyes took in images of blood and gunfire and swords with a strange interest, as if the entire thing was playing out before her theatrically. She watched a horse gallop towards her, tilting her head to the side and waiting to see what might happen. She wondered how high it could jump, if it could perhaps sail over her head where she stood upright, or if she would have to crouch down, or--

"Are you bloody_ mad?!"_

Something tugged on her, sent her careening to the ground and away from the horse. Where was the horse? He had been such a black, black horse...maybe he disappeared into the night.

Jonathan. Jonathan was glaring at her like he was scared, or worried. Gretchen burst out laughing.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he demanded, taking her shoulders and shaking them. "Gretchen! Gretchen, are you dr..._Gretchen."_

He stared into her eyes, letting out a long sigh. Suddenly, someone else was there. Gretchen looked up and watched Beni wrench the bottle from Jonathan's hand. He brought it to his lips, but stopped, staring at her curiously. Why did everyone look at her so strangely? What had she done? They were the ones being so ridiculously paranoid about everything.

"What's the matter with her?" he muttered, tipping back a swig.

Jonathan reeled a little, swinging the gun in his hand. "What's the matter with _you?_ I'm bloody drunk and I can see she's higher than a kite--"

Beni turned a feral eye to Gretchen, and raised his hand to hit her across the face. His mouth was open, ready to spew insults and curses, but a loud yell interrupted him. Eyes wide, he jumped to his feet, running away from them. Gretchen giggled, wondering what the big deal was, anyway. She caught a glimpse of a sword-armed horseman galloping towards them, and grinned. But something grabbed her arm again and tugged her away from his path. She was starting to get a little irritated with all of this.

"Usually," Jonathan managed, laboring for his breath, "I would be no one to talk. But you need to sober up!"

Gretchen only shook her head, dazed at the sudden cease of action. Where had all the excitement gone? She didn't understand it, but they were all leaving--all the Ardeths and their black horses were leaving. And she was alive ... well, of course she would be. But really alive. And so was everybody else...

"Look--"

Jonathan's face again, and his hands on her shoulders. His eyes, all scared or worried or something.

"We both made it out of this mess alive. Let's find some place to have a drink."

She nodded slowly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Now he was scolding her with his finger.

"But no more of that. Do you understand me, love? No more of that stuff."

Gretchen shrugged, her mind still whirring from the effects of the drug. A drink...they would go have a drink. But no cocaine. She figured that was just as well; it was probably all lost by now, anyway.


	14. Jonathan's Invitation

**Jonathan's Invitation**

"Where in hell do you think you're going?" an irritated, squeaking tone demanded. A hand hooked Gretchen's elbow fearcely, jerking her off-balance and into the angry line of Beni's vision. She reached a few fingers to rub her head slowly, meeting his eyes with clipped patience.

_"The_ hell, you moron," she corrected sharply. " 'Where in _the_ hell do you think you're going'--"

He gave her a hard shake. Her feet wobbled beneath her, tripping over each other so that they might toss her ungracefully to the ground, but Beni was gripping her arm too tightly to allow her to fall. Her stomach tightened, and she curled a fist in rage. What a bastard. She'd show him--

"I want my powder!" he demanded tersely. Gretchen blinked a few times. Is that what this was all about?

"How about your cigarettes?" she growled, jamming a hand in her pocket. Beni released her arm to grip her shoulders in both hands, glaring pointedly into her vague eyes. He pressed his forehead against hers, a steady, threatening stare jabbing into her like an alleyway switchblade.

"Fuck the cigarettes," he muttered in a low, hissing whisper. "Do you know how much that powder was worth? Do you have any idea--"

She shrugged, attempting to pull away from him. His breath stank and he seemed entirely too upset over the whole ordeal. Suddenly, her cheek was stinging painfully. Gretchen took in a furious little gasp, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms.

"Look at me!" he yelled. "It is for German Rockeweigh--do you know who that is?! I am as good as dead without it! Where did you leave it?"

Beni slapped her again, an urgent ferocity trembling from his thin, rough digits. Gretchen tried to free herself from his grasp, thrashing and struggling in what she thought was an enthusiastic attempt. Her heart beat with elevating intrepidation; her mind spinning in a scarlet haze of anger and irritation and Hungarian curses she didn't understand. Beni was shouting and hitting her and she was trying to fight him back, to get out of his hands and away to...to where? Something about a drink and...

"Stop! That's quite enough!"

She froze, and her thieving companion dropped his aggressive hands to his sides sheepishly. She met the annoyed, dark eyes of her present employer with abbreviated gratitude. Jonathan! She was supposed to go have a drink with Jonathan--

"What is the meaning of all this?" Dr. Chamberlain demanded, adjusting his monocle with an aristocratic snort. A company of chuckles snickered behind them, and Gretchen suddenly became aware of Daniels and a few diggers standing audience to their ordeal. The professor turned a keen, sharp eye on the American. "You saw what was happening here?"

The opposite man shrugged. Gretchen's brow furrowed at the odd position of his arm, realizing then that a sling cradled one of his limbs. She wondered when that had happened.

"Buddy, it's your problem now."

Chamberlain sighed, turning his attention back to the pair of theives. He eyed Beni darkly. "Haven't you sense enough not to lay a hand on a lady?"

The Hungarian pinned down a sneer. "That isn't a lady, barat'm."

Gretchen glared at him, jerking her chin in his direction. "Well that is."

Beni's tongue darted out of his mouth in a juvenile retort. The English professor closed his eyes in exasperation. _"Enough._ You, go...do whatever it is that you do," he sighed, dismissing their desert guide with a wave of his wrist. "You come with me."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Chamberlain only shook his head, beckoning her to follow him to his tent. He glared down his long, hooked nose at her, murmuring tersely, "The drug's wearing off. Thank God."

Gretchen's brow furrowed curiously as he held open the flap of the tent for her, allowing her in first. She crawled into the cramped, beige space, her head suddenly feeling very light and detatched. She rubbed her temple thoughtfully as the professor managed his way into the shelter as well. He glanced into her eyes briefly, reaching for a cantene set meticulously amidst his other belongings. He held out the metallic container to her at an arm's length, and she took it gratefully.

"You know...hm, what was your name, again?"

They both knew he hadn't cared to ask a first time. "Gretchen."

He snorted, reaching over to snap the tent's opening shut. He refused even to face her as he spoke. "Gretchen...you have not been very attentive to me since I hired you."

She gulped nervously, something like embarrassment sobering her thoughts. "Oh. I thought--I mean, it seemed like you didn't really want--"

His shoulders jerked stiffly as he turned about to look at her again. His previous, snootish superiority seemed worn to awkward ineptitude in the flickering light of his lamp. Gretchen glanced away from him, gazing about the tent with feigned interest. Everything was so very...perfect. Books were stacked neatly against a locked chest. A lamp was set precisely in the center of the chest, lending its saturated light to the small, tight space. A mattress was laid in a clean parallel to the chest, made up with thin sheets tucked severely into its angles. Even the pillows seemed strained and stiff. Gretchen took in a little breath, meeting his eyes again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the phrase catching strangely in her throat. Forcing a quiet smile, she reached a hand up to touch the side of his face, her fingers brushing carefully over his well-shaved cheek. He was so wooden, so tight, that he was making her nervous. She swallowed, trying to coax him out of his statuesque shell with whatever ability she had learned thusfar. He was so very odd. Most men were ready to go the moment they had her alone. Chamberlain seemed embarrassed by his own request. Gretchen's stomach twisted in temporary sympathy, pulling closer to him and pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

_Why didn't O'Connell want to go with me? I was trying to save his life, after all--_

Gretchen forced her wandering mind to return to the situation at hand, focusing her attention on the buttons of the professor's collar. What had made her think of O'Connell, anyway? She glanced up again, meeting his eyes and embracing him again. When she had kissed the American Legionnaire, he had felt as stiff as Chamberlain. Unsure--perhaps even undesiring. But then he had given in, overtaken by his lust or the threat of death or--

Or by her?

She took a breath, slipping her blouse from her body and tugging at the skirt to figure the simplest way to remove it while sitting down. She could feel Chamberlain's eyes scanning her skin thoughtfully, and she felt, moreso than she saw, his body relax a little. Gretchen smiled, jerking her head in the direction of his virgin bed.

O'Connell had talked about Evelyn like--like--well, it did make sense. He wasn't the sort of man Beni was. He didn't want to leave behind someone who had rescued him, and Gretchen didn't exactly blame him. It was just that...Everything seemed so very complex, and something like regret flooded her senses every time she recalled their kiss. She was beginning to feel as if, maybe, she should not have done that. As if it was something she had stolen, but not deserved. He had held her in his arms and deepened the kiss, and yet...perhaps it wasn't her, _really her,_ he was kissing.

They were laying down, and she should be asking him what he wanted. Damnit, but his eyes were so very pathetic when she happened to glance at him. The whole ordeal was reminiscent of the time when she'd lost her virginity, and she could feel her cheeks flushing red every time they happened to chance eye contact. Licking her lips, she reached an awkward hand down to his belt.

"Look, I've never--"

His words startled her, and Gretchen's gaze jerked up to meet his in shock. Surely he wasn't about to tell her that he'd _never--_

"I've been married now, some fifteen years, and I have never been unfaithful to that woman to date."

She breathed a sigh. Well, if that was all. "It's alright," she purred smoothly, unfastening the restrictions of his pants. "This is nothing. You still love your wife. This is just...just fun, you know?"

Gretchen smiled for good measure, sealing her argument with a deeply meaningless kiss. His arms wrapped about her with sudden ease; he was free of the tense binds of fidelity for the time being. Unhappy men were so pathetically easy to convince. It was obvious from the looks of his tent that Chamberlain's wife probably hadn't put out in years' time. She had used the simplest, most believable argument she had on hand for such men as him--who had never so much as considered any woman but their wives until the moment when, for whatever reason, they found themselves entangled in her company. Gretchen could sweet-talk the guilt and remind them of the worthlessness of their encounters. She was hardly naive enough to believe that making love actually meant something.

Her stomach twisted again as she let out a dramatized moan. If sex meant nothing, then surely a kiss meant even less...But she'd kissed O'Connell because she had felt something; weren't people supposed to feel something? Weren't these senseless motions with Chamberlain supposed to be the abnormal and kisses like that one with O'Connell supposed to be the usual? Gretchen was living in a tilted reality, and everything that had come to be normal to her was so very wrong. Here she was, moaning and screaming titilating words, and meaning none of it. She didn't want to be with Chamberlain--and she had not wanted to be with Daniels, or Beni, or Warden Hassan, or even Jonathan. There, she was supposed to meet up with that strapping Englishman to tip back a couple drinks -- and why? Certainly not for the pleasure of her conversation. She had cheapened the entire act of love-making for herself, and now she was an empty, hollow void. She was a hole for rent; no small wonder that O'Connell had pulled out of her embrace and ignored her warning.

Gretchen took a deep breath, digging her nails into Chamberlain's back mechanically. She felt sick and strangely cold in the heat of passion. Trying to swallow her frustrations, she sought the solid truths of her previous belief system -- the one that told her anything was worth the money it took to leave this wretched life. Her legs tightened around the older man's torso, remembering an old dream. She recalled a dream of diamonds and silk and gold, in which she lived alone and satisfied with millions. But presently she wasn't so sure what she would do on her own.


	15. Gretchen's Task

**Gretchen's Task**

_She sat on her knees, head bowed. When she looked up, Meela was on a throne, draped in some kind of gauzy, gold fabric. A black snake twisted in her lap, but she didn't seem to notice it. Gretchen gulped. _

_"I know why you're here."_

_Gretchen felt her hands shaking. "I don't."_

_A slight smile tipped Meela's golden lips. "I think you do."_

_A strange sense of anger swept through her body. Her back straightened, and she put her hands on her hips. "Well, why are _you_ here?"_

_"I'm dead. I died for love."_

_Gretchen glared. "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. You never loved anybody, Meela."_

_Meela rose to her feet, the snake sliding down her skirt. When it hit the floor, it scattered into dozens of little black beetles. "That's because I'm not Meela at all."_

Gretchen was jolted to consciousness. She breathed a sigh, absently kicking the blankets from her body and resettling herself on top of them. Light pressed persistently against her eyelids, the heat of early day settling damply on her skin. The sun was barely deterred by the thick fabric of the tent, prodding her to consciousness. She let out a groan, burying her head in a pillow in the vain hope of stealing another hour of sleep. She wondered why it was so excessively hot and still within the confines of her makeshift home -- why the desert and Egypt themselves had to scorch those in them so brutally. Snorting impatiently, Gretchen opened her eyes, staring blankly at the pile of books across the small space. She wondered why people ever decided to live out here in the first place.

She gathered her mussed locks in one hand, lifting them from her neck for a few moments' relief. Yes, she determined, she was definitely going to get her hair cut when she returned to Cairo. Her eyes scanned over the neat little articles so perfectly situated in the small space, wondering if Chamberlain happened to have a brush or comb of some kind. Letting out an impatient sigh, she figured not. She recalled he was bald on top...She glanced at the books again and noticed a thin, greenish ribbon hanging from the pages. Gretchen ran her tongue over her lips, and reached for the book, flipping it open to the marked page.

She glanced at the tent flap, as if expecting the professor to storm in and prevent her from taking his ribbon. Still...She examined the page thoughtfully, reasoning that it was probably important to him, and he would notice if it was no longer marked. Why did it have to be so very hot?

Letting out a sigh, Gretchen took the ribbon and folded the corner of the page over, deciding that she would return her borrowed article at the end of the day before he had a chance to miss it. She replaced the book, her fingers raking over her brownish tresses and gathering them into a pony tail. She tried to detangle the knots as best she could, realizing that the act tended to rip them from her head altogether. Frustrated, Gretchen tied up her hair with the ribbon, realizing a little late how very quiet it was. They must have all ventured into the ruins. She figured that was well enough; she really didn't want to go back.

Her hands rummaged through the sheets, catching hold of her slip amidst the mess of fabrics. She pulled the thin clothing over her body, denouncing the need for her blouse and skirt right now. She was alone, after all, and it was so very, very hot outside--

Gretchen froze suddenly, leaning towards the tent flap as slowly as she could allow. Perhaps it was nothing, but then--No, she was certain it was there this time. Someone was outside. Swallowing fearfully, she drew towards the back of the tent, praying that whoever or whatever it was would go without noticing her. A shadow fell over the front of the tent, and an instinctive gasp caught in the back of her throat. Her mind wanted to reason with her; wanted to assure her that it was one of the people in their company, but her racing heart wouldn't listen. She pulled her knees up to her chest, sitting motionless in the bed. God, why did she have to be alone right now?

The shadow lifted the tent flap, ducking his head into the opening. A wave of simultaneous relief and apprehension and wonder flooded her senses, beating chaotically in her nerves and veins. She forced a little smile, not knowing what else to do.

"Hi," she whispered. She watched his Adam's apple jerk nervously before he spoke.

"Hello," he glanced outside of the tent again, scanning the camp thoroughly before returning his black gaze to hers. "They are in the ruins?"

Gretchen nodded slowly. "Yeah...I think so."

He grunted, slipping awkwardly through the opening of the tent and letting the flap fall closed behind him. He lowered himself to a seat with some difficulty; Gretchen swallowed as his scimitar clanked against the carpet spread as a temporary floor.

"You do not go with them?"

She shrugged, glancing at the books again. She could feel his gaze studying the side of her face.

"You are wise," he pronounced quietly. Gretchen let out a forced, humorless laugh.

"Yeah," she murmured sarcastically, "that's me."

She felt a silence yawning between them, filled only by the sound of his steady, measured breath. She tried to quiet her nerves, remotely wishing she had eaten something. Her eyes jerked up to meet his suddenly, taking a careful draught of air through her parted lips.

"What are you doing back here, anyway?"

He sighed, glancing towards the low ceiling of the tent. "I am a Med-Jai. It is our duty to guard Hamunaptra."

Gretchen snorted. "Well you're doing a shit job of it." As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, her cheeks blushed in embarrassment. "God, I'm sorry, Ardeth --"

But he only sighed again, shaking his head. "No. You are right. My father always said...he always said my heart was my weakness. I do not want to kill these people."

She chewed her bottom lip, scouring her mind for something to say in response. "That's not really...I don't think that's a weakness. Not wanting to kill people. I think...I mean, I think that's normal."

Ardeth stared quietly into her eyes, his black depths piercing a strange, sleeping part of her soul. Gretchen swallowed uncomfortably, looking away from him. "The Med-Jai cannot afford to be merciful. We must stop the Creature from being reborn at all costs."

Her brow furrowed at his strange words, and she glanced up at him again, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully. "Well that's a hell of a task you got there."

A smile barely tipped the corner of his mouth, but his eyes seemed unamused. Sad, even. "I feel I am failing."

Gretchen's stomach twisted in painful realization. So often, she had acted as a caring ear to the problems and complications of dozens of men. Maybe she had only half-listened, or perhaps she had only seemed to give a damn, but it never ceased to irritate her how many of her customers mistook her bed for a confessional. And now, here was yet another man confiding his secrets to her as a stranger, and she was paying attention.

Taking a breath, she shook her head, trying to manufacture sincerity towards a subject they both knew she was completely unaware of. "You're not going to fail."

Ardeth only sighed, glancing at the flap of the tent in what may have been nervousness, had it been anyone else. "I should go. I only needed to be sure...They have found nothing?"

She shrugged. "Um...I don't think so. Yesterday they quit early. Some booby trap or something. The diggers, uh...well, some of them...melted."

He looked down, closing his eyes and whispering something in a language she did not understand. "If they come across a book, be sure no one reads from it."

Gretchen blinked a few times, trying to comprehend his words. "What? How'm I supposed to do that?"

His endless gaze drove into hers desperately, his hands closing over her shoulders. His words shook from his throat in crazed urgency. "If someone reads from the book, the world is damned. Please listen to me. If they find the black Book of the Dead, get rid of it. Hide it somewhere until you can get it to me."

She swallowed nervously, forcing herself to nod. Ardeth let out a slow breath, his grip releasing completely. He pulled himself to a stooped stand, making his way to the tent's opening. Glancing over his shoulder, he met her eyes again.

"Thank you."

Gretchen watched him crawl out of the tent, letting out a long sigh and reaching for her blouse. She hadn't been aware that she was holding her breath. Shaking her head, she began to slip the buttons through their loops ruthlessly, her mind swirling with confusion. Why had he come back? Why hadn't he killed everyone like he was supposed to? Not that she wasn't grateful for his "failure"--simply that she wanted to know the reason for his slip-up. His heart--her ass. She knew the stories. Plenty of people had traveled to Hamunaptra, never to come back. Surely he and his warriors were the force behind that. Why had he sought her out? What made her so goddamn special? She didn't want him hanging around, messing up things in her mind. She didn't need him giving her orders, searching for some bogus Book of the Dead and then stealing it away from some very determined treasure-hunters. It was none of her business, and she really didn't care. Why did he talk to her like she ought to care? As if it mattered to her whether he was "failing" or not?

Breathing a frustrated huff, Gretchen pulled her skirt up to her waist and cinched it, her eyes and hands ransacking the area for her shoes. Damnit, where had her shoes gone, now? Was she supposed to suffer the torid sands with bare feet now, too? She didn't take the time to connect the logic, but decided her shoes' disappearance was Ardeth's fault, also. He was screwing everything else up; why not take the blame for her shoes? Flustered, she brushed a few free strands of hair from her face, trying to slow her racing thoughts. This was ridiculous.

A frantic scream interrupted her rampaging mind; her head jerked up just as her tent flap was pinned open, Beni's pale, sweating face peering in at her with wild eyes. Gretchen raised her eyebrows, hands on her hips.

"Do you see my shoes?"

He breathed difficultly through his open mouth, pointing a shaking finger at her scuffed, leather sandals set neatly beside the chest. Gretchen scoffed, glaring at them irritably. Beni slipped into the tent without any invitation, sitting cross-legged on the floor and rocking back and forth. She barely took notice of him, slipping the previously missing articles of clothing onto her feet. He watched her, mouth gaping for a few more moments before asking hoarsely:

"Do you believe in curses?"

Gretchen's brow furrowed curiously. "What?"

Beni wrapped his arms about himself, rubbing his limbs as if with a chill. "Curses. Do you believe in curses?"

She shrugged, tugging at the lock on the chest thoughtfully. "No, I guess not. Do you know where I could get something to eat?"

"When I was eleven, I saw a fortune teller," he told her, his eyes gazing steadily into a haunting memory. Gretchen glanced at him before returning her attention to the chest. "She was a Gypsy with one eye, and everybody said she could see the future with it."

His American companion snorted, giving up on the lock and settling herself on Chamberlain's bed. "That's stupid."

Beni's frightened gaze jerked up to hers. Gretchen was beginning to get fed up with borderline-insane eyes glaring into hers. "She said to me, 'There is one, the Undead, who, if brought back to life, will kill all...and assimilate their organs and fluids, and no longer be the Undead, but a plague upon this earth.' That is what she told me!"

"Did you get your money back?"

The Hungarian took her chin in his hand, staring frantically into the depths of her eyes. "It was a curse! The curse on the chest--it's what she said! Don't you see?"

Gretchen shook her head. "So they found something?"

Beni slapped his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow and smearing it off on his pants. "This place is cursed like the Gypsy said. If it was not for that remaining five hundred dollars, I would be gone."

Gretchen looked at him, stretching out her legs in the cramped space. Her knees made a strange, popping noise in retort. Letting out a sigh, she leaned back, laying on Chamberlain's bed again and staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

"Isn't it weird how money's the most important thing we have to live for?"

She could feel him eyeing her strangely. "No...? Come on, Gretchen. Everybody lives for money."

"See, that's what I thought," she continued, not entirely certain where her musings were taking their conversation. "But...Well, like those guys who attacked us last night. Nobody's paying them. And if there is treasure here, they would have taken it a long time ago. It's the most important thing to them, and it's got nothing to do with money."

Beni snorted, pulling his fez from his head and running his fingers through his greasy locks. "It has to do with money. It _must._ Nobody would care so much for a pile of old buildings without it."

Gretchen sighed, determined to find the logic in the midst of the disconnected facts. "But what if it doesn't? What if they're all scared of some curse and what it would do to the world?"

He tilted his head to the side, watching her through squinted eyes. "Did you 'borrow' more of my powder?"

She shook her head, twisting around to lay on her side. "I'm just_ saying_..."

Beni grunted, scratching the back of his neck and speaking with dismissive superiority. "Look, the reason those desert guys are here is the same reason anybody comes here. Everybody wants the treasure, and all they get is the curse."

Gretchen sighed, allowing a silence to stretch between them. Running her tongue over her lips, she asked quietly, "Do you think we're cursed?"

His brow furrowed. "Cursed?"

"I mean, do you think there's something the matter with us?" she persisted.

"The only thing wrong with us is that we do not have the money to get out of this goddamn place."

She sighed. "You think that's it? Well...what about other normal things?"

"'Normal things'?"

She nodded. "Like...I don't know. Like love. Have you ever been in love?"

Beni scoffed. "In love? What does that have to do with anything--"

Gretchen drummed her fingers on the carpet. "That's what I mean. I've never been in love. Isn't that normal? Aren't people supposed to be in love sometime in their life?"

The Hungarian let out a thoughtful sigh, lifting his shoulders enigmatically. "I don't know. I think people are supposed to be happy."

"Are you?"

The question hung between them in the hot, still air. Beni stared at her, his lips jerking with the want to speak, though no words slipped from them. He finally managed to respond with a half-hearted:

"Maybe we are cursed."

Gretchen rolled onto her back again, gazing up at the ceiling. "I'm not happy, either."


	16. Three Americans and Four Sacred Jars

_**A Historical Note. **The Library of Alexandria was burned by Julius Caesar during the Alexandrian War in 48 B.C. He wasn't looking for the Book of the Dead, but he did destroy plenty of ancient literature._

* * *

**Three Americans and Four Sacred Canopic Jars**

Gretchen's breath caught in her throat. Her heart felt as if it was pounding everywhere at once; as if somehow, all of her veins had started throbbing. She swallowed uneasily, forcing her trembling fingers to trace over the heavy, black inscriptions to be certain the thing before her was real. A set of impatient, tanned digits gripped her knuckles, stopping her just before she could touch the ancient cover. She tore her eyes from the enigmatic artifact, gazing into the blackness of Dr. Chamberlain's stern glance. He lowered his eyelids a little, looking down his nose at her severely.

"You mustn't touch it. This book...may be one of the greatest finds in archeological history."

She held back a snort, folding her hands awkwardly in her lap. "So what's it do, exactly? What's it for?"

His shoulders rose and fell; his eyes fled her own, seeking refuge in the puzzling discovery in his lap. Running his tongue over his lips, his voice fell to an eerie whisper.

"Gretchen, this is the Book of the Dead."

Her gut sank hopelessly. That was exactly what she had been afraid of hearing. She took a breath, glancing at the heavy, black book with subdued interest. Gretchen thought it looked ugly and remotely frightening; more importantly, it looked like a lug to carry, and Ardeth had practically ordered her to get it to him by any means necessary.

"This book contains lost spells and incantations of the Old Kingdom. Julius Caesar burned the Library of Alexandria to the ground in search of this. It is said that somewhere in these pages is a spell that can bring people back from the dead."

Gretchen shivered, attempting to swallow the cool apprehension in her throat. Her brow furrowed at the book again, motioning towards the decorative design containing what appeared to be a simple beetle.

"And what's that?"

Chamberlain let out an irritated sigh. _"That_ is a lock. And until I discover some way to crack it, we shall never know what this book contains."

Her mouth gaped at the comment, wide eyes gazing at the professor as his words connected in her mind. Gretchen leaned back as nonchalantly as she could manage, attempting to be conversational:

"So without a way to get into it, you can't really read from it, huh?"

Chamberlain rubbed his temple in exasperation, shaking his head. "No. I can't."

Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. She glanced beyond him to the opening of the tent, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Let's open up the front and let some air in here. Now that the sun's gone down, it's actually kinda nice out."

He nodded distractedly, his fingers running over the surface of the book and its binding in vain. With a strangely genuine grin, Gretchen crawled to the front of the tent, opening the flap and slipping into the vaguely warm night air. She pulled herself to her feet, crouching over one of the stakes and untying the rope about it. She did the same to the other side, lifting the sagging fabric up and rolling it neatly. With a little difficulty, she rest the roll on top of the tent. She barely heard Chamberlain mutter a thank you. With a sigh, Gretchen noticed the quiet crackling of O'Connell's fire. She licked her lips indecisively, glancing at her employer. He was so engulfed in the book that he did not even realize her gaze. With a shrug, she turned away from the tent, picking her way over to the campfire uncertainly.

Gretchen lowered herself to sit on the log beside him, feeling his surprised glance on the side of her face. Sighing, he picked up a stick, poking at the yellow flames thoughtfully.

"So..." he sighed awkwardly, staring intently at the growing fire.

The prostitute ran a tongue over her lips, finally forcing out the words. "About last night--I'm...sorry."

O'Connell turned his head to look at her, silence filling the space between them. He opened his mouth to say something a few times, but never quite found what he was searching for. Breathing a sigh of self-frustration, he murmured:

"It's okay...I mean, I understand," he snorted, gazing off into the night. "It probably seemed like a good idea at the time."

Gretchen smiled sadly, running her fingers roughly through her hair until they came to the ribbon. She pulled it from her windy locks, her fingers mechanically working out the knot as she managed:

"I thought you were gonna die, I guess. And...and I really don't know why, but it seemed like a big deal--to me."

O'Connell stared down at his feet, concentrating on the grains of sand. His gaze jerked up to hers suddenly, piercing her with his depths of endlessly fantasia blue again. His jaw hung open, and she heard the beginning of an indecernable word slipping from his lips, but a hand slapped him on the back, and one very similar to it landed on Gretchen's shoulder. A familiar mouth pressed a gin-stinking kiss to her cheek, a benign chuckle filling her ears as the sound of uneasy footsteps traipsed to sit on the opposite side of O'Connell.

"Hello there!" Jonathan greeted a little too happily, dropping to a seat. "Gretchen, I missed you last night, love!"

She forced an embarrassed smile, avoiding the wondering eyes of her fellow American. "I got a little tied up, I guess."

The slightly inebreiated Brit took no offense. "Well, you missed out on an exquisite bottle of Glen Livet. Perhaps another time."

Gretchen nodded, strongly considering the idea of leaving the two men when a third party plopped down beside her.

"Hey, O'Connell," Beni sneered, holding up a mysterious bag in his fist. "Guess what I have got?"

Gretchen wrinkled her nose, staring at the smelling parcel with dread. The American Legionnaire only shrugged, muttering sarcastically under his breath, "Crabs? The clap?"

The Hungarian reached into the little sack, pulling out three dead rats by their long, hairless tails. Gretchen leaned back instinctively. "Get those out of my face!"

O'Connell cocked his head to the side, taking one out of his grasp. "Reminds me of the good ol' days."

Beni laughed nervously, revealing a long stick he had carried to the fire with him. Taking a deep breath, he jammed the stick down one of the rats' throats and through its body. Grimacing, Gretchen looked away as he slipped it into the fire. O'Connell did the same, much to her disgust and Jonathan's wonder.

"You know, that's really not entirely necessary--"

The American only grinned at him, twisting the rodent over the flickering flames. "When we were stationed out here, they were the only thing we could find to eat."

"Say, O'Connell," a new voice put in, "what do you suppose these honeys'll fetch back home?"

Jonathan loosened his collar, his attention drawn away as Henderson, Burns, and Daniels joined their haphazard company. The firelight gleamed over the ancient gold and ivory of their proud find; along with the Book, Chamberlain had informed her, they had discovered five canopic jars, four of which were perfectly intact. Gretchen had asked him what they were for, and the professor had explained that they contained the organs of the dead. Gretchen thought it was a little trashy--and vaguely disgusting--to tote around somebody's liver and spleen and whatever else, but when she saw the intricate, animal-headed lids and smooth alabaster jars, she reconsidered. Organs or no, those things were obviously worth a small fortune.

"We hear you boys found yourselves a nice gooey mummy," even Burns could muster the pride to be smug. "Well, congratulations."

Gretchen glanced at O'Connell, but he seemed unabashed. He forced a sarcastic snicker, grinning snidely at Daniels.

"You know if you dry that fella out, you could sell 'im for firewood!"

They had a nice little laugh, but Gretchen's stomach only turned. That was easy for them to say--the tourists staying in their fancy hotels with a ticket back to civilization. They had never had to walk by a pathetic vendor, hawking his stinking, cryptic wares in the slummy end of the suqs. Gretchen didn't have much of a taste for any of this so-called adventuring, but she may have been able to put up with its ruder points more easily if it wasn't for all the death that surrounded it. Everything about this place gave her the creeps, and now Chamberlain had that damned book, and O'Connell's group had found a mummy--

Evelyn's benign chirping interrupted her thoughts. "Everyone, look what I found!"

Gretchen suddenly felt O'Connell's eyes on her, and she glanced at him curiously. He cleared his throat, managing to whisper, "You're, uh, you're in her seat."

The prostitute furrowed her brow, glancing back at the Englishwoman. Evelyn was a little too absorped to really notice what was taking place for her sake. With a snort, Gretchen pulled herself to her feet, giving the Legionnaire an irritated glance before walking around and sitting complacently next to Beni. She had seriously considered, there for a moment, storming off in a feminine rage, but decided that really was no good. Where would she go? Back to Chamberlain and the Book of the Dead? She'd rather be here.

Evelyn held out her hands, cradling the ugly, dull remains of a few bugs. Gretchen wrinkled her nose.

"What the hell's the big deal? They're dung beetles," she muttered. Evelyn glanced up at her emphatically.

"They're scarab skeletons," she informed matter-of-factly. "Flesh eaters. I found them in our friend's coffin." Evelyn's pretty green-and-brown eyes glinted in the yellow firelight. "They can stay alive for years feasting on flesh and corpse."

A small silence consumed the space between the gathering of acquaintances. O'Connell ran his tongue over his lips, speaking the chilling words with detatched horror. "So somebody threw these in with our guy and they slowly ate him alive?"

Evelyn grinned devilishly. "Very slowly."

Gretchen glanced over at Beni, brow furrowed.

"That can't be right," she put in, her own uncertainty ringing in her ears. "Bugs that'll eat people?"

The Hungarian beside her snorted, grinning impishly at the company. "Let me know if you see any live ones. I do not want to run into them."

Henderson chuckled. "Ah, hell. It's a bug. Gimme a good set 'a boots, and the bastard's a goner."

But Evelyn was shaking her head, some dull discovery burning her lips. "No, you see, they never did that. I've been looking into it all afternoon. According to my readings, our friend suffered the Hom-Dai--the worst of all ancient Egyptian curses, one reserved only for the most evil of the blasphemers. In all of my research, I've never read of this curse having actually been performed."

Gretchen glanced at O'Connell, her blood pumping at a desperate speed in her veins. The curse, the book, the mummy--

"That bad, huh?"

"Well, they never used it because they feared it so," Evelyn explained readily. "It is written that if a victim of the Hom-Dai should ever arise, he would bring with him the Ten Plagues of Egypt."

The prostitute swallowed warily, gazing deeply into bright, yellow sparks with uneasy focus. She generally didn't believe in all this crap; it was useless superstition and hokum. But Ardeth had looked so wildly desperate, and this place kept giving her such a bad feeling...She glanced up suddenly, catching the Englishwoman's eyes.

"So how does he arise?"

When she spoke up, the Americans startled, as if they had been so captivated by the story that they hadn't quite found their way back to reality just yet. Evelyn's gaze twinkled, excited to share her knowledge with an interested ear.

"Oh, don't be silly," she chided. "It's only a myth."

"What a shame," O'Connell put in stiffly.

Jonathan nodded, a playful grin stretched across his face. "And I was so looking forward to getting to know the blighter."

A round of nervous chuckles wafted through the smoke; Gretchen glanced up and barely caught Daniels's eye. His gaze hardened, giving her a quick glare before turning his attention away from her entirely. Breathing a sigh, she nudged Beni.

"What time is it, anyway?"

He reached into his pocket, procuring a pocket watch that may have once been very expensive and flipping open its tarnished cover. He tilted its face in the unsteady light, trying to catch the numbers correctly.

"About 9:30," he informed her, jerking his head at Chamberlain's tent. "You have to be back for something?"

Gretchen snorted, shaking her head. She was fairly certain the professor wasn't asleep just yet, and if he wasn't asleep, then she couldn't hide the book--

Beni leaned closer to her, his breath hot and moist against her ear. "You know, you still owe me for that powder."

She breathed an irritated sigh, turning her head to glare at him. "Oh, come on. I'm working!"

A snide smirk revealed his stained teeth. "Not right now, you are not."

Gretchen turned her eyes stubbornly to the campfire, barely hissing, "I'll pay you back later."

Daniels let out a loud, obnoxious yawn, drawing her attention away from the weaselly antics of a certain Hungarian thief. He glanced at his compatriots, arching his back until every available vertebrae popped in response.

"We best be headin' back, eh, boys?"

Burns pulled himself mechanically to his feet. "Yup. There's lots more treasure to dig up."

He reached down a hand, helping Henderson up. The blond man tipped his cowboy hat mockingly, a smirk playing over his handsome features. "'Night, gentlemen, ladies."

O'Connell inclined his head; Jonathan gave them a sarcastic little wave. Gretchen glanced at Beni, waiting to see if he would join the Americans on their trek back to their camp as well. Evelyn's eyes flitted about to each of them, as if anticipating something. Licking her lips, she pronounced:

"Well, we do have a big day ahead of us. I think I'll be off to sleep, as well."

The rest of their company nodded, slowly beginning to move to their respective areas again. Gretchen stood as quickly as she could allow, murmuring goodbyes and walking briskly towards Chamberlain's tent. She really didn't need Beni bugging her about what she "owed" him just now. There were, apparently, more important things to worry about.

Slipping into the tent, she laid down as quietly as she could beside the professor--his stillness and steady breathing betraying his slumber. She could take the book right now, she knew. Her heart thumped in anticipation. Take the book and do what? Run out into the desert, praying she might run into Ardeth? He seemed to show up all the time, anyway; perhaps he ought to just sneak in right now and take it. He was probably more skilled at that, anyway. Besides, it was only a book--and a locked book at that. A strange feeling crept through her nerves. Why was she so very determined to help Ardeth with this, anyway? He was obviously just an ignorant, superstitious desert man. What could the book possibly _do?_ Sure, there were the legends, and O'Connell's mummy, and the Creature Ardeth kept yapping about, but--but they were only stories. Myths, as Evelyn had said. Truthfully, Gretchen hated this place--it felt eerie and dark and haunted--but that still didn't mean water was going to turn to blood any time soon. As long as the book was locked, who really cared?

Breathing a satisfied sigh, she settled down to sleep. She would worry when there was something she should clearly be worried about.


	17. Nobody's Decision

**Nobody's Decision**

_Gretchen took the last few steps with uneasy courage, glancing behind her cautiously. She met eyes--dark, dark eyes and deeply blue as well. Her foot hit the floor, and she pulled herself up into the familiar hallway. There was noise, everywhere--echoing noise. Something like voices, or screams, but muffled. She swallowed, walking slowly down the hall. She looked back and forth, but the doors on either side of her were closed. She started to rush, to almost run. She collided with a force that threw her against the wall, and she whirled around to see who had done it. _

_Meela passed her without a second glance. She looked hypnotized, determined. Gretchen's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Meela was naked. Perfectly naked and shimmering in an odd, unnatural way. As if she was made of gold or something. __She glanced over her shoulder, smiling coyly. _

_"It's a dirty business," she stated placidly. Gretchen nodded. Suddenly, Meela had a dagger--a long, pointed dagger that glimmered the way she was. Her dark eyes met Gretchen's again. "Then you understand."_

_Meela took hold of the dagger, arching her back and raising it high before driving it hard and true into her own abdomen. _

Gretchen sat up with a gasp, a thin, haunted moan in the wind sending a shiver up her spine. She shook her head dazedly, feeling a strangely cold gust of air rush past her and blow her hair all about her. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt so dry. A rotten taste lingered in her mouth as she tried to make sense of her situation. It was night. Yes, of course was. She had been dreaming. She was in the desert right now, in Hamunaptra. She was in a tent with Chamberlain, but he had fallen asleep before she had. He'd given up trying to open that--

The professer jerked out of his sleep as well, startling Gretchen. She let out a little scream that was lost in his haunting yell:

_"No! You must not read from the book!"_

The prostitute's eyes widened. The book. That big black cursed book Ardeth had told her to bring to him when they found it. He had called it the Book of the Dead, but...nobody was supposed to be able to read from the book. Chamberlain had told her so. He told her it was locked, and there was no way to open it. How was it open? Who had read from it...?

Gretchen followed Chamberlain's accusing eyes to O'Connell's campfire, to Evelyn and O'Connell crouched curiously over the book. The black Book of the Dead. The book she was supposed to take to Ardeth--

A strange buzzing filled her ears, and Gretchen turned her attention to the opening of the ruins, to the cliffs illuminated in the bright moonlight. She watched the black night sky brown, and she could not quite connect the occurance in her head.

"Locusts," Chamberlain whispered under his breath. She turned her gaze to his pale, fearful face.

"And that's a bad thing," she pronounced quietly. His dark eyes met hers.

"One of the Ten Plagues."

Gretchen took a breath, tearing her gaze away from the oncoming swarm to watch everyone--the Americans, Beni, Jonathan, the diggers, Evelyn, O'Connell--bolt towards the ruins. She stumbled to her feet, ready to run after them. Chamberlain's voice mocked her:

"What are you, a stalk of barley? They can't hurt you."

She gulped, whirling around to look at the man uncertainly. The insects buzzed all about them, settling on their clothes and skin and hair. Gretchen swatted them off of her, their needle-like legs sending shivers down her spine. Chamberlain pulled himself to his feet, virtually unaware of the torrent of locusts clinging to his being. She watched him walk to the campfire, a loud buzzing noise reverberating in her ear. Grimacing in disgust, she pulled a large, tan bug from the tangles of her hair, flicking it to the ground. When she glanced up, the professor was heading back to the tent, grasping the book in his trembling digits.

"What have we done?" he murmured, lowering himself to the cushions where he had been sleeping moments ago.

Gretchen's breath was coming to her unsteadily. She crawled to the back of the tent, curling up as far away from the opening as possible. What had _she_ done? The book was in her reach; all she would have had to do was take it to Ardeth. None of this would be happening if it wasn't for her...

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. No, that wasn't true. This was certainly someone else's fault. What about Ardeth and the Med-Jai? Wasn't it _their_ job to keep "the Creature" from coming back? If this was such a big deal, why didn't they guard the place better? And--and what about Evelyn? What was she doing messing around with it in the first place? And, for that matter, what about science? Yes, science definitely had a hand to play in this problem. If only all those snooty professors hadn't gone about giving legitimate fears the name "superstition" and making rubbish out of ancient curses. Maybe she would have put more weight on Ardeth's warning if she hadn't been brought up in a world that called all of his beliefs fallacy.

Gretchen's heart was thumping wildly, and she couldn't quite stay her breathing. If only she'd taken that damned book when she had a chance--

"Here! Hold onto this!"

Chamberlain was shoving the Book of the Dead into her arms now, his eyes urgent and fearful. He glanced over his shoulder a few sporadic times before giving her one last, serious look. He brought his finger to his lips and crawled back to the front of the tent, shouting out an Arabic curse. Gretchen stayed in the shadows as she had been instructed, gripping the book against her chest. She could hear many voices outside, and several booted footsteps and hoofbeats. Chamberlain was talking in rapid Arabic, and she couldn't quite catch the words being thrown between him and another man. She bit down on her bottom lip, her fingers drumming against the book's cover.

Gretchen closed her eyes, reasoning that the firelight outside would not reflect against her eyeballs that way. In her mind, she pictured Meela again, though she hadn't realized she had been thinking on the other woman. Meela smiled and motioned at her. _Bring me the book._

Her eyes snapped open, shaking her head against the strange thought. Her gut felt cold, and she threw the book away from her. Its weight carried it barely a foot or so from her shaking form, but at least she was not holding it. The darkness of the back of the tent made her muscles tense, and she hurried to pull herself out into the night. The locusts were gone, and in their place was a hoard of Med-Jai. Gretchen breathed a personal snort; she should have known. What a reason to cower in a tent for.

Her attention was drawn sharply away, however, when Ardeth stumbled out of the ruins, dragging a body into the openness. Gretchen's breath caught, and she hung back in awe as the orange glow of torches played over Burns's face. Well, most of his face, anyway.

His eyelids sagged over empty sockets; his mouth hung open, but no tongue lolled out. Gretchen gripped the pole of the tent, her stomach twisting and her throat drying out. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the nausea and desire to vomit. Her mind throbbed with a hopeful mantra: _He's going to be okay, he's going to be okay, he's going to be okay ..._

A hand was on her shoulder, and an impatient gaze was prodding her to look back. She met Chamberlain's worried eyes blankly.

"What are you doing out here?" he hissed. "Where is the book?"

Gretchen blinked, her middle tensing. She wanted very badly to double over. "In the tent..."

"Do you see what you have done?" another urgent demand. She could not meet Ardeth's gaze. A moment later, she realized he was not even looking at her."Who has read from the book?"

Chamberlain huffed a sigh; Gretchen figured he would take as well or worse to a scolding. "That..._woman,_ from the other camp. Miss Carnahan."

Ardeth declined his head quickly, averting his attention to Burns. He motioned at the man sadly. "Do you see what your actions have led to?"

"I told you I didn't read from it!" the professor snapped.

Gretchen crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold. She felt her spine trembling, and her mind struggled to compute the vast array of sand she stared at stubbornly. She refused to look up; refused to risk catching a glimpse of the unfortunate American. She heard Chamberlain mutter something under his breath, striding briskly away from the desert chieftain. Gretchen sucked on her bottom lip, still adamant against glancing up.

An awkward hand rest on her shoulder. "Where is the book?"

Her brow furrowed; she focused on a grain of sand that appeared to be darker than all the rest. "It's in the professor's tent. He's pretty attatched to it."

She barely heard Ardeth swallow, glancing away from her face. "That much is apparent."

Despite herself, Gretchen's head jerked up, a defensive light glimmering in her puzzled eyes. "This isn't my fault!"

Ardeth looked at her, his dark eyes full of some emotion she couldn't quite discern. "I am not blaming you."

Frantic footsteps interrupted them; the group that had saught refuge in the ruins now fled from them. The desert chieftain gave her a quick, farewelling nod before walking briskly towards the frightened company.

"I told you to leave this place or die..."

_So why didn't you?_ she demanded of herself, staring grimly at the ground again. _You had your chance. O'Connell didn't want to come, but there was still Beni. You could have made it back to Cairo. You don't have to be in this mess, but I guess it's too late now._

"You refused..."

_So now you're stuck. You're stuck because you're stupid. You could have gotten that book. You could have stopped this whole mess. So maybe it wasn't your job, but you still had your chance. But it's too late now, isn't it? It's too late, and this .. thing is already bringing back the Ten Plagues. You could have made it out of here._

"Now you may have killed us all."

_So what now?_


	18. Fools' Reciprocity

**Fools' Reciprocity**

Under just about any other circumstances, Gretchen would have considered her position a good one.

O'Connell's body was pressed up against her own, her back resting easily against his chest. She could feel his heart pumping anxiously against her, and if they had been in any other situation, she would be quite satisfied with herself. One arm held her against him, the other was gripped tightly about the leather rein of a weary camel. His breath was warm and nervously uneven against her head, barely ruffling her hair with each exhale. He had nearly all the token signs of arousal, but that had nothing to do with her.

In mere minutes, what was left of the two encamped parties had made it astride some unfortunate, half-sleeping animal and urged it to a gallop out of the ruins. Gretchen had stayed close to the group; even if she was fairly ignorant of whatever had happened at Hamunaptra to cause such a flight, she knew she didn't want to get left behind. O'Connell had glanced over the people, taking a quick inventory. She figured right about then that he had to have been a Legionnaire. Only someone used to casualties would take in the living and assumed dead with such detatched efficiency. His gaze had barely flicked to her own at the time. "You can't ride, right." It had been something like a question, though he was too commanding at that point to give the sentence any proper intonation. She had nodded, and he had motioned that she ride with him. Nobody had protested. Nobody cared about something so mundane as who rode with who.

Burns, also, shared a horse with Daniels. Gretchen could not look at the man. She lived in Cairo, true, in the slums. She had seen deformed vagrants and the mangled remains of people who angered the wrong men. She knew the corpses of children who had starved to death in alleys, half-eaten by rats and dogs. She'd heard the crazies, muttering and yelling to themselves in the cramped, dark roads. She knew the streets, and she knew the people and half-people born of them. She had probably passed by men worse off and left the uglier for it than Burns.

Even still, Gretchen had come to terms with those realities. She knew people were cruel and heartless and sadistic. She was aware that not all people were like that, but generally speaking, in her area of expertise, people could do limitless harm to each other. Gretchen understood people. She did not understand whatever-it-was that had taken Mr. Burns' eyes and tongue.

She tried to focus instead on sleep. She wasn't sure why she wanted to sleep so badly, since her mind was buzzing with confusion and everything around her was tense. She knew she probably should sleep; it was the reason O'Connell had insisted on riding behind her in the first place. "If you fall asleep, you could fall off the back." She had wanted to retort with a coy, "And what if _you_ fall asleep?" But she had known better than that. The wild anxiety glinting in his eyes had told her that he wasn't in the mood for a joke, lame though it was.

She also kind of wanted to sleep because of the soreness in her muscles. For a good fifteen or twenty minutes (she wasn't sure; it had felt like an eternity) outside of Hamunaptra, the riders had forced their mounts to maintain top speed, and her legs and ass were feeling it now that they had slowed.

And Gretchen really had little more than her aching muscles to focus on. She knew O'Connell would have easily traded her for Evelyn if given the choice, but she wasn't particularly sorry over that. Wasn't that the story of her "career", after all? She had been a mere substitute for every man that had ever paid for her; what, _really,_ was the difference now?

Still, she liked O'Connell. She recognized that he was a good man in a bad world, and she liked that. At the very least, she liked to believe that somewhere such people existed. She knew better; she had learned too much in the slums to seriously entertain the fantasy of a handsome savior. And she knew that O'Connell probably had his share of little flaws, of irritating habits, his stash of closet-skeletons. But for now, she liked to think that he was the one good seed, the angel from the ashes, the diamond in the rough, and probably a dozen other silly, melodramatic ideals. She just wanted to believe that he had survived the same streets that she and Beni had, and been strong in the ways they had failed. She wanted to think that there was someone out there who could suffer through the rot and grime and make it out okay. If she couldn't do it herself, then she at least liked to believe that there was stability in the hope for it.

Gretchen also knew that O'Connell couldn't exactly grab Evelyn's attention right now. She and Chamberlain rode ahead of them, a heated debate bouncing between the two scholars. Every now and then, Jonathan would steal a nervous glance at their American guide. The cool, clipped words were fired back and forth with assassins' precision, and Gretchen could tell, just from the way O'Connell sat so erect and kept his eyes on them, that her fellow Yank wanted to intervene and save Miss Carnahan from the professor's snooty attacks. But Evelyn was holding her own, and O'Connell knew he didn't have the education to silence them. Under normal circumstances, education probably didn't matter much to him. He had muscle and guns and those were convincing enough. But Chamberlain and Evelyn were arguing curses, and mythology, and legends and dead kings. What knowledge could an American ex-Legionnaire have to end a debate between the likes of them?

"So what now?" the question had been echoing in Gretchen's head since Ardeth had grimly pronounced the fate of the world; it was just now that she was able to speak it.

O'Connell sighed heavily. "We get to the fort, and then we get the hell out of here, I guess."

Gretchen let a pseudo-silence clatter between them, the British arguers still loudly caught up in outsmarting each other. She ran her tongue over her lips slowly.

"I don't have any money to go."

He did not even pause. "We'll get you out of here."

A strange sense of comfort slipped through her veins. Gretchen pursed her lips and tried to think about something else. "I don't even know where I'd go."

"Yeah," he muttered quietly. "Me either."

In a way, she wasn't surprised. "I've been here so long...and I've done so many things..."

O'Connell scoffed, though not at her. He seemed to be considering himself. "When I left home, I'd never even held a gun. I killed people here...I mean not just in the Legion, but in a bar fight. I beat a guy to death."

Gretchen swallowed. "I was engaged...I can't even count how many people I've screwed."

His arm tightened around her in what she liked to believe was a protective way. "I should've never left home."

She blinked against the blurriness in her eyes. "Me either."

She felt more than heard O'Connell clear his throat awkwardly. "Do you, uh, do you have any family?"

Gretchen's brow furrowed strangely. It seemed like an eternity since anyone had tried the usual small talk with her. "My ma's still alive, I think. I haven't heard from her in years. I had a brother and some sisters. They're probably all married now."

O'Connell grunted. "I grew up with my dad and mom. I ran away when I was eleven years old; I stowed on this steamer and ended up here. I think the second I was off the boat I had a nun dragging me to some orphanage."

She kind of smiled. "They've gotten good at that."

"Yeah," he breathed.

The wind whistled passed their ears. O'Connell stood up in the stirrups, squinting at the horizon. Slowly, he lowered himself back down.

"We're not too far from the fort."

Gretchen nodded.

"By the way ..." his voice was strained with whatever was weighing on his mind. "I'm real sorry. About Beni, I mean."

She blinked, confused. "What about him?"

O'Connell swallowed. "Well ... it must have gotten him in the ruins somewhere. He's not with us."

Gretchen glanced over the group in interest. "Oh."

"It just seemed like ... you know. I thought it might bother you. I'm sorry."

She wanted to retort, with a little laugh, that it didn't bother her. That Beni had been nothing more than an annoying runt who was constantly demanding that she scratch his back if she wanted him to even _consider_ scratching hers. She wanted to say that he was nothing and nobody to her; that it was just as well that he fall off the face of the earth. She wanted to say that Beni, like everyone else, was completely expendible to her.

But that just wasn't so.

Beni had been a lot of things, and few of them good--least of all to her. But if O'Connell had been the one to make it out of this wretched place a better, noble man, then Beni had been the one whom she had always believed would make it out. Beni was supposed to survive.

If he couldn't make it, what hope was there for her?

"Oh," she finally managed. "Yeah...hmm...Though, I mean...you probably knew him better than I did."

O'Connell kind of laughed in the back of his throat. "I don't know. I don't know if anybody really knew Beni." He took a breath, and let it out reluctantly. "When you're like that...when you're just...you know, greedy and selfish like that, you just don't get the chance to know people. You're too worried about yourself."

Gretchen closed her eyes against the darkness. Something in her eyelids burned. "Yeah..."

"If you die like that--I mean, what do you say about a guy like that? Can't say I'll miss him..."

She sighed. "Me, either."

"But you have to admit, it's a loss. Living your life that way--it's a loss."

Gretchen rode in silence the rest of the way to the fort.


	19. Chance's Cruelty

**Chance's Cruelty**

Gretchen twisted the glinting silver knob, watching a rush of steaming water sputter and flow into the deep, porcelain tub. Taking a bath seemed much too normal for the situation, but they were safe in Fort Brydon, she had three hundred dollars, and, according to Evelyn, the world was ending. O'Connell had assured her that they would be getting out of Cairo, and so she trusted that they would--but she wasn't going anywhere until she had washed the desert dust from every crevice of her being. Waiting for the water to fill the tub, she glanced into the mirror and almost startled.

She looked like a mess, sure. She'd barely slept since the night before last. But...her face looked fuller. She unbuttoned her blouse in interest, tearing the grimy fabric away to notice her middle. She breathed a sigh of disappointment. Her ribs were still much too prominent, and her breasts were pathetically small. But she couldn't help thinking she looked...healthier. That would figure. A trip into the desert would leave most people worse for ware, but she looked better--or at least imagined she did. Gretchen supposed three meals a day steadily was bound to have that effect.

She glanced at the assortment of bath salts and oils on the counter, and turned her attention to them instead. Who knew bathing was such an art?

Pouring the perfumed bottles into the tub, Gretchen absently considered the professor. Chamberlain had paid her, as promised, and said he was going to his office to try and sort out the present situation. He had been agitated, tense--but he had paid her, and so he wasn't her problem anymore. She had politely kissed him goodbye and he had looked off towards the door, jingling the change in his pocket. She'd told him to stop by and see her anytime, and he had said he doubted that would ever happen.

Gretchen twisted the knob again, turning off the water. She slipped off the remainder of her clothing and eased into the tub, her skin crying out against the steaming pool. She gritted her teeth and sunk to the bottom, the water lapping against her collarbone lavishly. Just as she sunk her head under the water, her door burst open.

"There you are!"

Gretchen gasped, rubbing the water from her eyes to squint at Jonathan. She met his wide eyes for a split second before he glanced away, his face flushing in embarrassment.

"Sorry, love," he muttered. She snorted, reaching for a bottle labeled "shampoo."

"It's alright," she retorted through gritted teeth, hoping he would get the hint and leave. When he made no move to do so, she sighed, turning her attention to washing her hair. "So what's your problem?"

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck in agitation. "With all of this happening...with this...this mummy and all--where are you going to go?"

Gretchen's brow furrowed. That wasn't the usual, aimless kind of Jonathan question. "I don't know. Back to the States, I guess. Why?"

He shrugged, leaning stiffly against the sink. "It's just...well, it happens I just had a drink with your American friends, and they said no boats leave until tomorrow, but, love, that's not the half of it--"

She sat up, curiosity pricking her senses. "What's the matter, Jon?"

"It's here, love. The mummy. I saw it."

Gretchen met his eyes, and noticed a fearful desperation that seemed so foreign in his usually carefree depths. She swallowed uneasily, her fingers pausing in the sudsy tangles of her hair.

"It killed Mr. Burns, it--Gretchen, it sucked him dry. Just as the curse said."

She breathed a heavy sigh. Everything seemed so very...surreal. And, while Gretchen wasn't about to think that every other person on this damned trip was crazy, she was having trouble conceptualizing what they had told her. A part of her just couldn't quite believe all of this was true because she hadn't personally witnessed any of it. And, while she didn't really want to see the horrors of this...risen mummy, she couldn't help the skeptical persistence of her mind.

"I just...I wanted to make sure you were alright," he swallowed, his cheeks a little brighter for his words. "I'm sorry. None of this seems to phase O'Connell or the other men. I must just be a coward, I suppose. But I had to be sure we'd lost no one else to it." He glanced away, back towards the main room. "Where's the good professor, by the way?"

Gretchen shrugged. "He left. Said he was going to his office or something. He paid."

Jonathan's eyebrows jerked up suddenly. His previous anxiety seemed to melt into dirtier concerns. "Oh, did he?"

She held back a smile. "Yes, he did."

A slow, devilish smirk began to tug up the corner of his lips. "You know, love, what with it being the end of the world and all--"

Gretchen sighed, holding up her pointer finger and slipping beneath the surface of the water. When she sat up again, the foam was rinsed out of her locks. Smiling, she motioned him closer. Jonathan grinned, slipping off his dress coat and leaning over the tub. He leaned his forehead against hers, staring thoughtfully into her eyes.

"I want you to know, love, that I don't think of this as a sort of business exchange."

She frowned, glancing away from him. "You're broke."

He sighed, his breath hot like the steam of the bath on her face. "No, Gretchen. I-I rather...fancy you."

Gretchen pressed her lips into a tight line, snorting tersely. "Then fancy me enough to pay me."

"God, Gretchen," Jonathan breathed, his tone tight with frustration. "Can't you simply make love to me and let it be all?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but a heavy knock on the door interceded. Jonathan straightened, taking a few steps away from the tub as the door swung open. O'Connell's wide eyes glanced between them before he turned to the side awkwardly.

"Jeeze, sorry," he mumbled, staring stubbornly at the floor. "I didn't-- Evelyn wants everyone in her, uh, uh, hotel room to talk all this over. So, get there when you're...dressed and, uh, satisfied..."

He strode quickly out of the doorway. Gretchen cautiously looked up at Jonathan.

"I'll meet you there."

He bobbled his head difficultly, turning to leave. He glanced back at her, once, "You don't have to be for sale all the time." His gaze slipped to the floor, and he took a breath before looking at her again. "You're a person, you know...a person. And I...I _see_ it, even if you'd rather not."

She sighed, closing her eyes against his words. She heard his hurried footsteps, and the door close. Gretchen rubbed her temple, her mind tangled up in confusion. She should have never went to the bar that afternoon. This whole thing could have been avoided--or, at the very least, she wouldn't have to be mixed up in it.

Pulling herself out of the tub, she forcibly rolled her eyes at Jonathan Carnahan's antics. He "fancied" her--_sure._ And she was supposed to believe that now. Jonathan was just a hound--he wanted a good time however he could get it. And, generally speaking, that was fine with Gretchen. He'd been trying to sneak in his time with her since he'd seen her on the boat because he was horny--and that was perfect for her, any other time. But this now--pretending to care, invoking the precarious situation they were in--this was just...annoying. Deceptive. Unfair. She didn't need this. Because when everything was over--whatever was about to happen--and they were left, or one or both of them was dead, it would just be empty, like everything else. And she didn't need him making her think she _did_ matter to him when the simple, disappointing truth was, they were in danger and he needed some way to feel like a man, in control. He didn't have the balls to be like O'Connell, so he needed her to scream his name and make him think he was up to snuff.

Gretchen tried to shake the thoughts from her head, examining her clothes in disgust. Now that she was clean, the sweaty, dusty fabric seemed especially unappealing. Running her tongue over her lips, she scanned the bathroom hopelessly. A fluffly, white robe hanging on the door caught her interest. With a shrug, she put it on, grabbing a comb from the array on the sink. She raked it through her hair impatiently, figuring that she should probably be at this "meeting" in Evelyn's room.

She examined herself a final time in the mirror before reluctantly grabbing her grimy sandals and rushing out of her room. Down the hall, raised voices echoed from the door. Gretchen knocked, and Jonathan let her in without looking at her.

"Why aren't you dressed?" Daniels' demanded, leaning back in his chair. She blinked.

"I don't have anything--"

Evelyn grabbed her hand. "You can borrow something of mine. But we've got to hurry."

Gretchen allowed herself to be dragged to the bedroom, confused. "What are we doing?"

The opposite woman shut the doors primly behind her, opening one of her dresser drawers. "We're going to the Museum of Antiquities. My employer knows everything about ancient Egypt, and I'm hoping he will have some answers."

She pulled out a thin, white blouse, holding it up thoughtfully. "Hm. I think you're a little smaller than me."

"That'll work," Gretchen responded readily, reaching for the clothing article. She untied her robe, slipping the blouse over her body. Evelyn cleared her throat quietly.

"Wouldn't you like some, uh, personals, perhaps?"

For the first time in a while, Gretchen felt her face flush. "Yeah, I guess that would be good."

Evelyn dug through the drawer, handing her a slip. Her eyes stayed intently focused on finding more clothing as Gretchen got dressed.

"Here."

She held a small, black skirt at arm's length, still consumed with her rummaging. "I don't know if it will fit, but it has a belt on it--"

"It's fine," Gretchen reassured her, pulling it on. "We should go."

Evelyn sighed, her head declining in a quick little nod. "Yes."

Her eyes seemed to be expecting something, and the prostitute swallowed uneasily. It seemed ironic, considering the fact that the Englishwoman's curiosity had just released the killing force of an ancient curse. But, all things aside, she figured it was still appropriate:

"Thank you."

Evelyn swallowed, looking down at the floor. Lines of worry strained her pretty face. "You're quite welcome."

Gretchen ran her tongue over her lips, touching her damp hair thoughtfully. "Yeah."

Before another odd moment could pass, Evelyn opened the doors and prodded her out of the room. The museum, she assured her, was only a ten minute walk away.


	20. Three Americans and Some Guy Imhotep

**Three Americans and Some Guy Named Imhotep**

Gretchen had never been to the Museum of Antiquities before; she'd never really had any reason to go. She didn't care about modern Egypt--and she certainly didn't care about the country in its ancient prime, either. The entire building smelled old and musty, and her stomach turned at the thought of all the mummified corpses that must have been contributing to the stink. As she mounted the steps behind Jonathan, she did her best to keep her focus. Outside, there had been proof enough to make her a believer in curses.

The streets and tenements smoked from an onslaught of fiery hailstones; people cowered in doorways with wide, fearful eyes. Another plague.

Jonathan's words on their walk to the museum haunted her, also. _I was just now thinking of it, love. All the water downstairs had turned to blood. Why didn't your bath?_ And Gretchen didn't have an answer for that. But something about that revelation sent a chill through her body. At the very least, she'd gotten clean...but if it had happened everywhere else--why not in her tub?

_An oblong pool carved out of marble, steam wafting from the soothing water. She can almost smell it: exotic, heavy, sensual..._

Gretchen blinked hard, trying to clear her head. The image buckled and blurred out of her vision, but did not fully fade from her memory. She glanced up as their company froze in a doorway, and the click of revolvers greeted whatever had surprised them. Gretchen looked up, catching the calm, dark depths of Ardeth Bay's eyes. She couldn't read their expression, and that strangely set her on edge. She felt her mouth hanging open stupidly, but Evelyn intervened for her:

"What is _he_ doing here?"

Another man, older and rather staunch, lifted his eyebrows. "Do you really want to know, or would you prefer to just shoot us?"

Gretchen couldn't look away, even as the guns were holstered again and they began to file into the room. She leaned awkwardly against the wall, glancing at the floor when Ardeth turned his attention to the rest of the group. Her stomach dropped in a way that surprised her, and she only half-listened to the curator's explanation of the Med-Jai. The word caught a gasp in her throat. Ghazi was a Med-Jai, which meant that this whole ordeal involved him, too. She wasn't entirely certain that that made him useful, but she figured it was something to keep in mind.

"...to stop the High Priest Imhotep from being reborn into this world."

_Imhotep._ The name echoed in her head, and the image of the pool strengthened in her mind. She imagined Meela's smile of a sudden and attempted to blink it away, but the woman's form only sharpened.

_Meela steps to the edge of the pool and unties a robe. She tests the water with her hand, and a small smile tugs at her lips. She's thinking of a man. A handsome, haunted, powerful man, who is as beautiful as he is dangerous. He's the sort of man who pulls a woman down by her heart and never lets her back up for air._

Gretchen sucked in a deep breath, her eyes wide. She couldn't understand her mind, and it frightened her. She noticed Ardeth's eyes on her, but couldn't find it in herself to look up. She squeezed her eyes shut against this strange feeling--this hard, overpowering feeling in her head that felt at once like a migraine and a high--gritty, but surreal. She _saw_ Meela in the pool, but she _felt _the presence of thoughts. She couldn't see the man she was thinking of, but she knew his impression.

Letting out a loud sigh, she shoved the scene from her head with a force that throbbed. Pulling her eyes up, she focused with all of her strength on the matter at hand. The mummy. They were talking about the mummy. And Henderson was talking:

"By killing everyone who opened that chest--"

"And suckin' 'em dry, that's how!"

Gretchen swallowed uneasily, remembering the cryptic retelling of Mr. Burns' corpse. The man had not simply been killed, but sucked completely dry. She'd had trouble understand the concept, and the Americans were agitated and impatient story-tellers. _He looked like a mummy_, Henderson kept saying. _He looked like a fuckin' mummy..._

"...He called me Anck-su-namun--"

Gretchen's stomach clenched. She felt chills crawling up and down her spine, and a warm breeze, like a wordless whisper, tickled her earlobe. The image of the tub returned with a bludgeoning power, and she could only barely make out the voices of the people in the room through the vision in her head.

"It was because of his love for Anck-su-namun that he was cursed."

_Her head surfaces from the water; someone has beckoned her. Who? Someone important. Someone powerful. Someone who fills her with an overwhelming sadness. She is degraded. She is lowly. She is only as valuable as she is beautiful._

"Perhaps he will once again try to raise her from the dead."

Meela's eyes, but not Meela's eyes, kept flashing in her head. They were darker, deeper, and somehow...less hard. Tragic, even.

_It is a dirty business._

"Are you alright?" a voice like light broke through the fog, and the image evanesced.

Gretchen glanced up through the fading scene, noticing Ardeth's still unreadable gaze focused on her. She shook her head dismissively, the attention of the group setting her slightly off-balance.

"Yeah. I'm okay."

He watched her, some unnamed emotion in his dark depths. But as the sunlit room was enraptured in unnatural darkness, all eyes shifted to the window. Gretchen blinked, watching the bright, whitehot orb go eerily black. Her stomach twisted in wonder, but her heart was strangely unsurprised. She attempted to swallow the dryness in her throat, driving off this supernatural feeling.

"'And He stretched forth His hand towards the heavens, and there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt.'"

She sighed, glancing at Jonathan. Her voice shook a little, even as she attempted nonchalance. "Another plague?"

The curator nodded grimly. "Another plague."

"His powers are growing," Ardeth murmured. Gretchen swallowed uneasily. A fearful silence enveloped them; the minutes ticked by like an eternity.

"So now what?" Jonathan's plaintive voice finally ventured.

Daniels heaved a sigh. "I don't know about you folks, but I'd feel a helluva lot safer at the fort."

Gretchen watched Ardeth glance down, hopeless words on his lips. He closed his eyes, his mouth open to speak. She could about guess the warning he never said. _There is no safety. There is no place to hide._ But nobody wanted to hear that just then.

O'Connell nodded. "I'm with you."

The curator glanced at Evelyn before turning his eyes to the desert warrior. "We'll remain here. Perhaps some ancient texts in our storage can provide the answers."

"Would you like my help?" Evelyn asked meekly. The curator's gaze was sharp, but his voice was weary:

"You've done enough."


	21. Devil's Advocate

**Devil's Advocate**

"I don't get it," Daniels huffed, snapping his cigarette lighter closed, and then flipping it open again. The steady, agitated clicking of the lighter seemed to match Gretchen's heart rate; his nerves were setting her on edge.

They were sitting in Evelyn's room again, the false safety of the fort surrounding them in something like comfort. Gretchen sat stiffly in a chair, her eyes transfixed on the scuffed silver cigarette lighter Daniels was playing with. She wondered if he happened to have a smoke on him, but she wasn't about to ask him for it.

"Why don't he just 'regenerate' himself with all the dirty natives in the street?"

O'Connell shot him a look, but Evelyn--pacing thoughtfully in front of them--was frozen suddenly in her tracks.

"He has a point there."

The Legionnaire raised his eyebrows incredulously. "He does?"

Evelyn bobbled her head; she began to explain quickly, her mouth seemingly too slow for her train of thought. "Yes! With all the available resources--"

"Evy!" her brother chided with a grimace. "Really, you _are_ talking about people."

She nodded impatiently. "Shut up, Jonathan. With so many opportunities to regenerate, he seeks only after those that opened the chest."

Henderson's brow furrowed. "Didn't we already know that? I mean, isn't that what the curator said?"

"Well...yes," the British woman allowed, "but--listen. If he wanted to kill anyone else, he would have by now."

Her glittering eyes locked with O'Connell's; they stared at each other in a moment of understanding. Gretchen frowned, wondering what the big deal was.

"You think we're safe?" he finally managed quietly. Evelyn swallowed, her shoulders rising in a shrug.

"Well, considering the circumstances--"

Jonathan snorted loudly. "Come now, Evy. This...Creature is going to do whatever he wants!"

"Once he's regenerated," she retorted pointedly. _"So_ we must stop him from regenerating. Who opened that chest?"

Henderson supplied himself and Daniels--oh, and Burns of course. The egyptologist--

"What about my buddy Beni?"

Gretchen's head jerked up in interest, and she wasn't entirely sure why. The Americans assured O'Connell that he hadn't been present when the chest was opened; still, Gretchen had to wonder what he mattered. She thought Beni was dead---or, at the very least, left to the fate of the desert...

"What about you?"

She met O'Connell's eyes and her breath caught in her throat. The deep blue of his eyes took the words from her mouth, and it was all she could manage to shake her head numbly. Something in their depths felt like euphoria, and quieted her still-trembling nerves. If she had lost her mind in the museum, then the blue was certainly her anecdote.

"Nah," Henderson was answering. "She was sick or somethin'."

"Lucky's what she was."

Gretchen tore her eyes from O'Connell's, meeting the black depths of Daniels' gaze evenly. For the first time, she noticed a tragic desperation in him that had not been there earlier. Her stomach twisted, and she almost felt sorry for the bastard.

"Well," Evelyn's voice broke through the silence urgently. "We must find the egyptologist and bring him back to the safety of the fort."

Gretchen could feel O'Connell looking at her again, but she couldn't quite find it inside herself to look up.

"You were with him last, right?" She nodded. "Where'd he go?"

Gretchen shrugged. "He said he was going back to his office. He took that book--"

"Great," O'Connell breathed. "Okay, so the ladies'll stay here. You three--come with me."

A chorus of protests berated him. The Americans weren't going anywhere, they said--and Gretchen didn't really blame them. If this...mummy thing was after them, they probably shouldn't be out in the streets. Jonathan didn't see why he should have to go; Evelyn was whining about being left. Gretchen kept her mouth shut; she didn't have any problem remaining in the fort. Even if Evelyn was right, and the mummy couldn't--or wouldn't--kill her, she'd just as soon not run into it.

Gretchen leaned back in her chair and O'Connell hoisted Evelyn over his shoulder, hauling her into the bedroom. He dumped her on the bed and strode easily back into the room, the slam of the double doors muffling her persistent outrage. He twisted the key in the lock and handed it over to Daniels with a fierce enough warning. Gretchen was just getting settled when she felt the Legionnaire's commanding blue gaze on her.

"You make sure nothing happens to her."

The prostitute was fairly certain there was little she could do if Daniels and Henderson decided to ravage the lovely librarian, but she nodded anyway.

"Okay."

A moment later, O'Connell and Jonathan were gone. Daniels sighed, tipping his chair back on two legs. Henderson's nervous chewing filled the previously-noisy room. Gretchen shifted in her seat, wondering if she could get comfortable enough to doze for a little bit. Somehow, she knew the tension in their little enclave was enough to keep her from falling asleep, and besides, all of this ancient-Meela business was enough to make her fear her dreams. Breathing a nervous sigh, she ventured to speak up and distract herself from her creeping fears of insanity:

"So what now?"

Daniels scoffed. "We wait, dumbass."

Gretchen gritted her teeth. "Jesus..."

"You don't have to snap at her," Henderson muttered quietly. "She's stuck up in this mess the same as us."

His friend laughed humorlessly. "Ain't the same at all. Nobody's gonna suck her dry--turn her into a mummy." Daniels clicked his tongue, his dark eyes turning to Gretchen maliciously. "How's about it, honey? You wanna suck me dry before the world goes to shit?"

Henderson groaned. "Shut up, ya jackass."

But Gretchen only raised her eyebrows, barely glancing at the darker American. "You still owe me for last time."

Daniels snorted loudly. "Tell you what, sugar. You swim down to the bottom 'a the river and find my granddaddy's pistol and we'll call it even."

"Fuck you," she retorted. Barely two minutes with her countrymen, and she was already getting a migraine. "And fuck your pistol."

Daniels jumped to his feet, his hand ready and clocked back to deliver a painful slap. Henderson stood up quickly, grabbing hold of his friend's arm and shaking his head.

"Leave 'er alone," he told him evenly. "She's not worth it."

Gretchen looked away, pretending that the floor was extraordinarily interesting. She swallowed, feeling her stomach knot up with something like hurt. _She's not worth it._ No, the prostitute supposed, she probably wasn't. Not that she wanted to get decked, but Gretchen couldn't help wondering what she _was_ worth, if she wasn't even worth a good beating. For some reason, she thought of Meela again--her eyes sad and dark and, in their own way, understanding.

"Enough of this," Daniels spat out, stepping away from his friend. Henderson released his grip reluctantly, watching the shorter man walk toward the door. "I'm gonna go get me a drink."

She pushed her thoughts away, breathing a private sigh of relief. That would at least occupy him.

"You want somethin'?"

He was talking to Henderson, and only Henderson.

"Get me a bourbon," he requested quietly. The blond was looking at Gretchen, and something in his eyes was strange. She heard the door close behind Daniels, but she stared steadily back at Henderson because she wasn't sure what else to do. He swallowed nervously, glancing away. "I'm sorry 'bout him."

Gretchen shrugged stiffly.

"He ain't takin' any of this too good," he continued awkwardly. The prostitute rolled her eyes.

"He's been a prick this whole time."

But Henderson was shaking his head, ready to defend his companion. "He's got his moments, I know. I mean, he can be a real pain in the ass. But Burns was his cousin--like, like a brother to him almost when they was kids. And it's real hard on him, 'cause he always used to take care of him. It's like...it's like he failed, you know?"

Gretchen swallowed, toying with a strand of her hair absently. It seemed so odd for him to be telling her all of this, and she wasn't entirely sure what to say.

"You know you look like my sweetheart back home," he told her quietly, his cheeks flushing a little. She glanced up, but he wouldn't look at her.

"I do not," she sputtered in disbelief. But he was nodding his head.

"You do, kinda. You got eyes like she does, and when you smile...I kinda see her in you," he forced a nervous laugh. "'Couse, you don't smile so much."

Gretchen snorted. She knew she ought to say something--ought to fill the awkward silence and reassure his venture. She'd been told, many times, that she looked like a loved one, but she knew that wasn't so. People saw what they wanted to see; she was what they wanted her to be.

"Can I--can I kiss you?"

She looked up, meeting his uncertain gaze. A glaze of fearful, boyish tears brimmed in his quiet eyes.

"I'm just gettin' scared...and I keep thinkin'--I keep thinkin' I might never get to kiss her again."

Gretchen swallowed, pulling herself from the chair. Standing in front of Henderson, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nodded faintly. He pressed his lips softly against hers, and she felt more than heard a sob in his throat. He tilted his head and kissed her more forcefully, his tongue slipping into her mouth and his tears wetting her face. He was holding her tightly--too tightly--and then, suddenly, inhumanly, he was ripped from her grasp.

Her eyes snapped open, only to squeeze tightly shut again. The room swirled and whirred with sand and wind, a croaking and tortured scream echoing in her ears. Gretchen dropped to the ground, cowering against the phenomenon that had taken Henderson but left her untouched. She let out a scream that was lost in the tangle of wind and sand and howls.

And then, quiet. Nothing. A cold hand touched Gretchen's shoulder, and she reluctantly opened her eyes, meeting a haunted gaze. She swallowed, staring adamantly into his eyes because she was afraid to gawk at the rotting patches of flesh on his face. He said something she did not understand, turning his head towards a twisted, dry corpse on the floor. Gretchen gasped, her stomach jolting with nausea. She wanted to vomit, but he was looking at her again, a tragic understanding in his stoic depths. He spoke again, and his voice chilled her; his lightless gaze pierced hers, and she saw a man who was as dangerous as he was beautiful.

"Imhotep," she breathed.

_Anck-su-namun._

He looked shaken, and stumbled quickly to his feet. His body suddenly disintegrated into millions of grains of sand. A wind hissed through the room, and the sand gathered into an obscure cluster, slipping through the keyhole of Evelyn's door.

Gretchen stared.

Her whole body shook, but she couldn't convince herself to move. She wanted to run--wanted to flee from this room and this curse and this whole damned country, but she just couldn't force her feet to move. She stared stubbornly away from Henderson's corpse, the edges of her vision blurring with the very thought of the unfortunate man. Her stomach swam with sickness, and she gripped the table for balance. Her body doubled over and she gagged, but nothing came up.

The door opened swiftly, and she struggled to look up. O'Connell glanced at her briefly before rushing to the bedroom suite and kicking open the doors. Faintly, Gretchen heard a cat mewing.

A hand was on her shoulder again--warm, this time, and comforting. She looked up, meeting Jonathan's concerned gaze. He offered her his arm, and she leaned into him.

"I should've let you keep that puzzle box," he whispered sadly.


	22. Daniels's Gone

**"Daniels's Gone"**

When Gretchen first arrived in Cairo five years before, she'd seen a cripple in the street. She remembered his severely deformed legs, thin and delicate--birdlike, almost--curled up beneath his body. It was obvious he couldn't walk--and in her horrid fascination, she watched him drag himself into an alleyway with his arms. As the years passed on, she saw sadder situations--more unfortunate people. They became commonplace, usual, constant, and they no longer fascinated her.

As Henderson's mangled body was hauled out of the room on a stretcher, Gretchen started thinking about that cripple again. She remembered thinking that he had to have lived the worst life, and that nothing could be much more undignified than dying in a gutter. Leaning against Jonathan in the hallway outside of Evelyn's room, Gretchen was reconsidering that thought.

Daniels stood close beside her--too close, really, for either of them. But the hallway was only so wide. She could hear his uneasy breath--feel his eyes when they happened to dart her way. He was the last one, the final barrier between the Creature and his full regeneration. Daniels knew it. They knew it. Gretchen decided that she would rather be the cripple than Daniels today.

Evelyn sighed, rubbing her temple. Gretchen couldn't understand her. The world was ending--or, at the very least, something very, very bad was happening--and the Englishwoman was convinced that she was going to stop it. What more was there? Imhotep had succeeded in killing all but one of the cursed four, and his chances of snatching Daniels were ridiculously favorable. Gretchen knew now why Ardeth had been so insistent about the book--obviously, bringing a mummy back to life was irreversable.

Well, except to Evelyn. She leaned against the opposite wall, chewing on her nail and glaring her determination at the floor as Henderson was carried away. Gretchen glanced away from the other woman, to O'Connell. His large arms were folded over his chest, and his eyes were uncertain. She stared at him and he stared back, the blue faded and ordinary. For the first time, she couldn't see the fantasy of a better world in his eyes. O'Connell was helpless, and that frustrated him.

"We must go to the museum," Evelyn pronounced finally.

Jonathan glanced up, his tone too weary to be incredulous. "Do you really think that'll help?"

His sister huffed, meeting his gaze evenly. "Well, unless you have any other ideas."

O'Connell stepped forward, giving the Englishman a hard look. "We're going to the museum."

Evelyn looked at him, starting to walk towards the staircase. Their group followed numbly behind.

"Well let's at least take the car this time," Jonathan ventured.

His suggestion was not responded to, but they followed him to his yellow automobile complacently. The Englishman offered the driver's side to O'Connell, but the American Legionnaire waved him off, mumbling that he couldn't sit on the wrong side of the car like that. He gave Evelyn the passenger seat and jumped in the back. A moment later, Gretchen found herself squeezed between her two countrymen. She ran her tongue over her lips nervously.

"I haven't been around so many Americans since I left New York," she laughed weakly. O'Connell didn't smile, and Daniels just shot her a look.

"Or since this Thing got Henderson and Burns," he retorted bitterly.

Gretchen looked down awkwardly as the car hummed to life. As Jonathan hit the gas, she felt a hand rest over her own. She glanced to the side in confusion, but O'Connell wouldn't look at her. She stared at his large, calloused hand and couldn't quite make out the black mark etched into it.

The dark, waiting silence of the usually bustling city gave Gretchen an eerie, haunted feeling. She wondered, remotely, what was happening at the brothel--what Ghazi was doing, and if he knew what was going on. Ardeth had given her the sense, in so many words, that her pimp was not the ideal Med-Jai warrior. What had he called the brothel, that day he came for tribute? Well, it hadn't been good. She snorted privately to herself. Of course not. It was a whorehose, after all--

"Well, how about a little game?" Jonathan suggested, weaving the vehicle around the remains of a toppled building. O'Connell grunted darkly.

"Are you mad?" his sister demanded.

He shrugged easily. "I'm a little tipsy, I suppose. But I might just get sick all over the car if things get any more tense around here."

"Jonathan, _please..."_

"O'Connell, what do you wish you had done before you died?" the Englishman asked benignly.

The American took his hand off of Gretchen's and crossed his arms. "We're not dead yet."

Jonathan cleared his throat uneasily, taking a sharp right that made Daniels shove against Gretchen uncomfortably. She shot him a look, catching a glimpse of the museum just down the street.

"I wish I'd screwed somebody famous," she offered sardonically.

Jonathan snickered. "That's _lovely,_ Gretchen. Utterly charming."

But Daniels almost smiled. "Me too. Olive Borden."

Jonathan slowed the car to a stop in front of the museum, throwing the gear into park and turning it off. With a sigh, he opened his door and got out, not really looking at anyone else in the car. Evelyn straightened her shoulders ruthlessly and followed him. O'Connell glanced between Gretchen and Daniels, frowning a little. The prostitute opened her mouth to protest his look, but he was already getting out of the car and striding to catch up with the English siblings. Gretchen hurried after him; she wasn't about to stray too far from the group.

The curator and Ardeth were waiting for them inside. They said something about a stele upstairs and Evelyn's eyes brightened with immediate realization. She briskly directed the group to the staircase, already babbling about something ancient that Gretchen didn't entirely understand. She looked at the Med-Jai warrior, but he only nodded at the Englishwoman, prompting her attention to the scholarly words filling the marble room.

"...well, yes. I'm thinking that if the black book can bring people back to life--"

"Then maybe the gold book can kill him," O'Connell supplied. Gretchen's head jerked up in interest.

"So there_ is_ a way to kill him, now?" she asked hopefully. Ardeth's face strained in something like a wince.

"Well, yes," he allowed carefully. "If we find it."

Gretchen blinked. "You've been guarding that place for how long, and you don't even know where this...thing to kill it is at?"

"The Book of Amun-Ra contains limitless power," the curator told her sharply. "The Med-Jai fear that direct access to it would be far too great of a temptation."

"Great," O'Connell muttered. "So we've got no idea where this thing is."

Evelyn mounted the last step and stopped, turning to look at him. "We know it's at Hamunpatra."

"Come on," Daniels put in suddenly. "It's a solid gold book. It could be anywhere."

Evelyn's eyes blazed, and she glared directly into his incredulous gaze. "You can give up if you'd like. But _I'm _not stopping until this Creature is back where he belongs. Now this book is our only hope, and you can either complain about it or help me!"

She whirled around, striding quickly to a large, engraved stone in the hallway. Daniels glanced at the other men with wide eyes, but Jonathan and O'Connell only shrugged, shoving past him to the stele and Evelyn. Gretchen hung back, a little shocked. Her stomach was twisting guiltily; personally, she shared Daniels' sentiments--she simply didn't have the guts to voice them. But Evelyn's words struck her with a bullet's precision, and suddenly Gretchen felt the choice the librarian had thrust upon their skeptical companion. She could give up, or she could trust that something better would happen if they tried. And though the years had dragged on, and she had seen and experienced things that made her a believer in retreat, Gretchen decided to hope.

In strange juxtaposition, her mind suddenly shifted to Meela. But in her head, she wasn't Meela--she was Anck-su-namun. Calling the woman Meela no longer made sense. With a renewed determination, she drew closer to the group, shaking off her personal insanity and forcing herself to focus on the present. Somehow, it was easier now than it had been when she was in the museum before.

Evelyn's brow furrowed suddenly. "What is that?"

They followed her eyes to the window, and Gretchen's heart sank.

"Well," Jonathan sighed. "Last, but not least, my favorite plague--boils and sores."

Gretchen squinted at the crowd marching hypnotically towards them, and she grimaced as she realized that he was right. Their flesh was raw and bubbling with infectious marks and wounds.

"So it has begun," Ardeth pronounced darkly. "The beginning of the end."

Evelyn shook her head, that same old steel burning in her eyes. "Not quite yet it hasn't."

Gretchen swallowed, glancing at her expectantly. The woman was already perched against the stone again, tracing the scrawling etches with her fingers. Words trailed rapidly out of her mouth--something about the books, and Anubis, and the Bembridge Scholars...

"Come on, Evy, faster," her brother prompted.

She was absorbed, droning her retort, "Patience is a virtue."

A loud cracking noise drew Gretchen's attention to the floor below; the ugly and mindless crowd had forced open the doors of the museum. A gasp caught in her throat, but O'Connell had a comment ready:

"Not right now, it isn't."

Gretchen glanced between the men, fear knotting her nerves together. "Shouldn't we--"

"I'm going to go get the car, uh, started," Jonathan interrupted anxiously. He caught Gretchen's eye, and she nodded frantically.

"I'm coming with you."

She'd barely managed the words before they were racing down the hall at top speed. Jonathan's considerably longer legs were carrying him further much faster, and Gretchen lunged for his hand as they stumbled frantically down the stairs. He dragged her unceremoniously behind him, out the door and into the street. Her nose scrunched in disgust.

"What's that smell?"

Jonathan winced. "That _is_ a stench, isn't it?"

They whirled around to meet an oncoming cluster of diseased natives, weapons viciously raised. Gretchen felt sick; the pus and blood oozing from their skin stank even above the usual grime of Cairo's streets. Jonathan swallowed nervously.

"What do we do?" he whispered, his fingers tightening around her hand painfully. Gretchen chewed her bottom lip, staring into the crowd fearfully.

_They will not harm you._

She scoffed. "Oh, why not, genius?"

"Why not what?" Jonathan's brow furrowed at her; he tore his eyes away from their attackers to glance at her nervously. "Now's not really the time to be going bonkers on me, love."

Gretchen was too frightened to be embarrassed; the crowd froze to a halt inches in front of them, weapons still raised, but confusion glimmered in their blank eyes. Slowly, they backed away, stumbling off in another direction. Jonathan gawked at her, eyes wide and shocked. His mouth hung open stupidly, and Gretchen was feeling about the same way that he looked. She fumbled for the words to tell him that she was as confused as he was, but nothing articulate ever made it to her lips. He shrugged, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up in a silly grin. Laughing because he was alive, Jonathan rushed the last few yards to the car, hopping joyfully inside. Gretchen slipped in beside him just as Daniels, O'Connell, Evelyn, Ardeth, and the curator ran out from the museum.

"Well, this is going to be a nice tight squeeze," Jonathan muttered under his breath.

The group piled in; Daniels smacked Jonathan repetitively with his hat until the unfortunate driver had the car rolling at top speed down the narrow street. They jolted over potholes and tore through alleys; Gretchen didn't know where they were going, but they were getting there fast. She clenched her teeth against the uneven road and gripped the dashboard for balance. She barely had a moment to brace herself when Jonathan slammed on the breaks. A wall of smelling, zombie-like chanters blocked their path.

Gretchen let out an uneasy sigh, breathing, "What was it you wanted to do before you died, Jon?"

Before he could answer, O'Connell's foot shoved past hers to the gas pedal and sent them speeding into the oncoming crowd. Gretchen let out a scream, wrapping both arms around Jonathan's and squeezing her eyes shut. He entreated her to let go--it was hard to drive with her hanging onto him--but the dirty, desperate fingers that brushed over her body made her cling even tighter.

She had two choices: to hope or to give up, and she wasn't going to be delivered into their hands. In the blackness behind her eyelids, she saw Anck-su-namun's smiling face again. _Come and see me. I will spare your life, but you must come to me..._

The car crashed to a halt of a sudden, and Gretchen reluctantly opened her eyes. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, Jonathan was dragging her out of the car. Hoards of the hypnotized lepers surrounded them, closed in on them. Gretchen's dark eyes shifted about their group. The tally made her heart drop sickeningly.

"Daniels's gone," she breathed frantically.

Jonathan couldn't catch his breath enough to sigh. "Yes, well--"

"We're fucked."

O'Connell let out a humorless laugh. Jonathan only gulped.

"I've never had crêpes suzette," he blurted suddenly. The fearful gaggle glanced at him strangely, but he continued to stare fearfully at the crowd. "B-before I die. That's what I want to do."

Gretchen wanted ask him what crêpes suzette even was...or were...but the crowd was parting, and something in the back of her mind told her she had survived to see the worst.


	23. Death's Advantages

**Death's Advantages**

He was a tall man, with proud steps and regal features. His tawny skin looked like gold in the flickering light of the torches. His eyes were dark and frightening, and his faint smirk had an air of cruelty that made his face all at once handsome and repulsive. Gretchen took a step backwards, her gaze fastened on the striking and surreal figure. The curator whispered that he was, in fact, the Creature--fully regenerated. And even though she had seen him before he was whole, and watched him transform into a sandstorm, Gretchen couldn't help seeing a human rather than a monster. _Monsters could be defeated with a magic spell or silver bullets--but humans...people held the trump card. Imhotep was determined and real and tragic--the brutality in his eyes glistened with the triumph of retaliation--and he could not be a monster because he had a reason to be one. He needed to be vindicated--it was in his harsh gaze--and destroying him would never really be a victory._

Her breath caught with that passing musing--that was _not_ her typical way of thinking. Sure, he was a person, but people were torturous, harmful creatures--especially when they were in power. A cold fear gripped her suddenly--not simply because she had been sympathizing with the Creature, but because someone else's words had been in her head.

But Imhotep's words were filling the air now.

"'Come with me, my princess. It is time to make you mine--forever.'"

She knew that voice. Gretchen jerked her attention away from the undead priest, meeting Beni's eyes in shock. He met her gaze and winked snidely.

"'For all eternity,' idiot," Evelyn corrected with a glare.

Beni caught Gretchen's eye again and jerked his head at the Englishwoman obviously, but the prostitute only sighed. She thought it was obnoxious of the librarian to correct him, too, but she also thought that making fun of her was unwise at this point.

Imhotep began to speak again, but stopped short. His eyes bored into Gretchen's, making her stomach clench with fear. He said something else that she didn't understand.

"He wants to know how you know Anck-su-namun," Beni stammered, quirking his head to the side in cofusion.

Gretchen could feel the wondering gazes of those around her, and wasn't sure where to look. She glanced at Ardeth helplessly, but he only stared back. She saw something like realization glimmer in his eyes--but then, it may have just been the firelight.

"I don't...I don't know," she answered slowly.

_I will spare your life, but you must come to me._

Beni glanced up at Imhotep, plaintively translating Gretchen's words. The Creature continued to stare at her as he spoke again. Beni swallowed, turning his attention to Evelyn.

"'Take my hand, and I will spare your friends.'"

He jerked his head at Gretchen. "You are free no matter what they do."

She glanced at the others, confusion reflecting obviously in her weary brown depths. But they were not concerned with her; they were the ones in danger.

"Have you got any bright ideas?" Evelyn breathed.

O'Connell's eyes blazed with frustration, his gaze darting about the diseased crowd. "I'm thinking, I'm thinking."

Sheswallowed difficultly, catching his wandering eyes and locking them with her own. "Well, you'd better think of something fast, because if he turns me into a mummy--you're the first one I'm coming after."

Gretchen felt her throat tighten as Evelyn calmly stepped forward, resting her hand on Imhotep's. O'Connell started to protest, but her words and Ardeth's hands held him back.

"He still has to take me to Hamunaptra to perform the ritual."

The Med-Jai nodded his agreement. "She's right. Live today--fight tomorrow."

Gretchen watched O'Connell let her go--heard the growling threat in his voice as he promised the Creature that they would meet again, and saw the the smirking retort. Imhotep yelled something indistinguishable, and suddenly Evelyn was struggling--and the crowd was closing in. Beni easily picked his way over to Jonathan, wrenching something from his grasp. With a superior grin, he slipped over to Gretchen. He looked her over, nodding at her in acknowledgment.

"I have always known we are alike."

Gretchen glared. "Fuck you."

He shrugged. "I will be certain to let you, when this is all over." He winked. "See you at the end of the world."

Beni offered all of them an ugly grin before vanishing into the mess of people. Gretchen suddenly found herself alone in a clearing of the crowd, the diseased attackers closing in around the men. She twisted her head frantically, searching in desperation to meet one gaze. She prayed for the unnatural blue of O'Connell's eyes, and locked with the endless dark of Ardeth's.

"Ghazi's!" she yelled above the chanting. The Med-Jai might have nodded; before she could be sure, he disappeared into the chaos.

Gretchen took a breath and started running.

She had lived in Cairo long enough to know her surroundings, but her confusion and fear made the buildings and landmarks indistinguishable. Still, she ran on, eyes welling with frustrated tears and a pain knotting in her chest. She didn't know why, but she took a turn into an alley, and then raced onto another mainstreet. Her heart was pounding in her ears, but she could not stop--could not even slow down. She didn't know why she took a final turn until her feet skidded to a halt, air burning in her lungs. She blinked away the haze in her eyes, staring up at the rickety sign. The disheveled building looked even more sorry in the grim darkness around her.

_Come to me._

Gretchen swallowed and mounted the steps. She leaned into the door, but it did not budge. Her brow furrowed in surprise; the whorehouse was _always_ open at night. Too tired to be confused, she simply banged her fist against the rotting wood until she heard footsteps. The lock rattled and the door was opened a sliver. She met Ghazi's black, beady eyes urgently.

"Just let me in."

He swallowed and reluctantly allowed her through. She heard him lock it hurriedly behind her.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded hoarsely.

Gretchen gulped, suddenly remembering her unmentioned abscence. She decided to ignore that question for now. "Ghazi, you're a Med-Jai--"

He shrugged. She realized, just then, that his entire bulky frame was glistening with sweat. "Yes."

"Who's Anck-su-namun? How would she know me?"

A feral scream ripped through the building; Ghazi glanced upward and closed his eyes. "Where did you hear that name?" he whispered.

Gretchen swallowed, struggling to recover her breath. "I went on this dig to Hamunaptra. And ever since I got in the desert, I've had these weird dreams about Meela and that name..." She glared at him impatiently. "So can you tell me or not? 'Cause I'm starting to think I'm nuts."

The pimp sighed, gripping her hand in his own pudgy digits. "Come with me."

He led her up the creaking stairs, down the familiar hall to Meela's room. He motioned to the door sadly. Gretchen gnawed on her lip, afraid to glance inside. She stared at Ghazi in fearful confusion, but he only nodded at the threshhold again. With a defeated sigh, Gretchen pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Meela sat rigid in her chair, her hands and feet chained together. Her eyes were wet and her make-up was ruined from tears, but she met Gretchen's gaze calmly.

"I know why you're looking for me."

Gretchen stood stiffly on the other side of the cramped room, taking a breath. "Who is Anck-su-namun?"

Meela's shoulders rose and fell. "I am."

Gretchen forced a nervous laugh. "That's not--I mean...Okay."

"You've had dreams," she whispered, a sad and knowing smile in her eyes, "heard voices, seen strange things in your mind. I know. I have, too...my whole life. She haunts me because I am her."

Gretchen's brow furrowed, pretending to understand. "Hmm."

Meela's eyes flashed dangerously. Her voice cried out in pained defeat, "She wants my body! She says it is hers, and she wants you to take me to him!"

The American woman took a step back, her muscles tightening nervously. "He's taking someone else--"

"She wants _me!"_ the Egyptian yelled. She let out a scream, tears streaming down her face. Pitiful sobs wracked her body until she finally had the strength to whisper. "And I want to be free of her."

Gretchen stared into the black, desperate depths of Meela's beautiful eyes, fear freezing her veins. She wanted to run out of the room, but a frightening tragedy in the other woman paralyzed her. Swallowing uneasily, Gretchen managed to pull the mystery together.

"So she bothered me...and--and spared me from dying and the plagues and all that--because she wanted me to bring you to Imhotep."

Meela nodded wearily. "You know what it's like, this life..." Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears, and she pressed her lips into a thin line. Closing her eyes against a sob, she let out a bitter sigh. "This dirty business...You know what it is to be unloved, and...and used..." She clenched her teeth, and her gaze flicked up with revived ferocity. "You know what it's like to think this whole world is shit and men are animals--you've felt it! This hopelessness! This..._lie!"_

Gretchen breathed heavily, gnawing on her bottom lip. She glanced away from Meela's eyes, afraid to acknowledge the pricks of truth in her words.

"She knew you did! She saw that in you! And she thought, perhaps, you would have sympathy for her...for me."

Gretchen swallowed hard, taking a few more steps backwards. "I'm going to need a drink."

But the Egyptian woman was shaking her head, eyes widening with urgency. "You need to get me out of here--you need to take me to him!"

Gretchen scoffed, grasping the doorknob readily. "No--"

A sob caught in Meela's throat; she screamed again._ "Please!"_

Gretchen opened the door, slipping out of the room quickly. The unfortunate woman's cries echoed through the building; Gretchen met her pimp's gaze in horror. She struggled for the words to demand, ask, wonder, state...but nothing came forth from her frazzled mind. Ghazi nodded knowingly, gripping her wrist in his hand and leading her quietly back down the stairs. She was surprised to see O'Connell, Ardeth, and Jonathan standing in the lobby. She was even more surprised to see the bottom halves of their pants soaked and smelling. O'Connell's glare forbade her from asking for details.

"You're alive," she managed with a wry smile.

Jonathan loosened his collar. "Yes, well. Barely."

Ghazi looked them over grimly, meeting Ardeth's eyes with something like reverence. "Imhotep will bring her back one way or another. I thought I could stop him by hiding Anck-su-namun's chosen vessel. But I was a fool."

Ardeth shook his head. "The only way to stop him is the Book of Amun-Ra."

"And what about Evy?" Jonathan piped up. O'Connell nodded his agreement.

"We must return to Hamunaptra and destroy him before he performs the ritual," Ardeth pronounced firmly. O'Connell nodded again, glancing around their company.

"I know a way we can get there fast." His eyes stopped on Gretchen, confusion knitting in his brow. "Whose side are you on?"

She froze, staring blankly back at him. "The good side...?"

O'Connell watched her a moment longer before his shoulders rose in a simple shrug, accepting her at her word, "Alright then. Let's go."

Gretchen supposed that, when the world was ending, cross-examination really became more of a formality.


	24. Two Americans and a Yellow Car

**Two Americans and a Yellow Car**

Gretchen had wanted to tell O'Connell that, even though she was on "his side," she didn't see any reason for accompanying them to Hamunaptra. But her fellow American never asked her if she wanted to tag along or not; he'd looked at her with the blue of his eyes frozen solid, and she didn't have the guts to tell him she'd rather just remain in Cairo. She wondered now if he simply didn't trust her--if he'd dragged her with them so that he could keep an eye on her. Whatever his reasons, they were traipsing through the city streets now, and she figured it was too late to turn back.

_"Where_ are we going, exactly?"

The whiny quality of Jonathan's voice obviously irritated O'Connell, but he only gritted his teeth and answered, "Right now--to get your car."

Gretchen's head jerked up in surprise. "You made it to the brothel pretty quick for being on foot...and attacked and everything."

Ardeth grunted in irritation, and O'Connell may have rolled his eyes. "You can thank Jonathan for that. Turns out, he can find his way to the cathouse from _anywhere_ in the city."

The Englishman grinned at her sheepishly. Gretchen sighed, her breath the only sound in the vacant streets. The grim silence made her head buzz nervously; her eyes darted into every alleyway to be sure nothing was waiting to harm them. And yet...every time she was confirmed that they were alone, a chill slithered up her spine. The emptiness of the city was extensively more frightening than any mortal killer.

"So..." she breathed, attempting to fill the silent void amongst them. "Are you gonna tell me how you made it out of there?"

The men glanced at each other thoughtfully, their eyes falling to their still-damp pants with grim frowns.

"No, I don't think so," O'Connell decided finally.

Gretchen rolled her eyes, scoffing under her breath. "Are you serious..."

Ardeth nodded gravely; Jonathan gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, love. But some things simply must remain amidst men."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her step quickening a little to keep up with their determined strides. She honestly couldn't believe them--even the dopey English boy refused to tell her how they managed to survive Imhotep's murderous gaggle. _Some things simply must remain amidst men._ What a load of shit--

Gretchen's eyes widened suddenly, and something in her stomach dropped with fear. She caught Ardeth's eye, asking quietly, "What about that guy from the museum?"

The Med-Jai swallowed, glancing away from her to stare dutifully forward. "Dr. Bey is dead."

She looked down; to be sure, she'd probably been the least familiar with the curator. But the present body count was unnerving, to say the least. O'Connell and Ardeth had survived this time--but who was to say they wouldn't be dead in a matter of days, or hours? And if they were killed...who was going to stop the Creature? Gretchen knew she wasn't the one for the job, and as long as Evelyn was in his captivity...She swallowed. In five years on the streets, she'd seen plenty of deaths. But she'd never considered life so important as just now.

"Oh, thank God!" Jonathan's relieved sigh drew Gretchen's attention back to the present. She followed his gaze to the benign yellow form of his car, and found herself smiling despite it all. The men raced to the vehicle with renewed spirits, and Gretchen trotted along behind. The darkness of the unnatural light was lifting, and a faint glow was waiting for them on the horizon. And even though she knew it was stupid, and the cards were stacked, Gretchen was certain for a brief moment that everything was going to turn out alright.

She reached the car, tugging on the back door to no avail. "Jonathan--it's stuck!"

"Yes, I know," he yelled over the hum of the engine. "You have to jump in."

Gretchen shot a glare at the back of his head, gripping the side of the car and preparing to swing her leg over. Ardeth's eyes shone with something lik amusement, and he offered her his hand. A little embarrassed, she allowed him to take hold of her arms and virtually lift her in. She stared at him in surprise, but he kept his gaze trained on the road, a faint smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

"You're going to have to let me know when to turn and all that," Jonathan was saying. "As I have no bloody idea where we're going."

"Uh-huh," O'Connell grunted. "Turn here."

Jonathan whipped a right, sending Gretchen crashing into Ardeth. The Englishman glanced at O'Connell a few times, too intimidated to muster up a true glare.

"A little more warning would be nice," he muttered through his teeth. The ex-Legionnaire didn't even try to hide a grin.

Gretchen took a breath, slowly sitting up again. She watched the Med-Jai swallow uneasily, and he didn't look at her when he whispered, "It was smart of you to go to Ghazi."

She shrugged stiffly. "Where else would I go?"

"You remembered he was a Med-Jai," Ardeth persisted. But Gretchen only scoffed.

"Yeah. Or I was lead there by a ghost."

He shook his head in wonder. "All this time...I have challenged Ghazi's place in the tribe for years. My father must know--" His gaze finally turned to hers, alive with his personal confusion. "Why has she been allowed to live?"

Gretchen folded her arms over her chest, glancing up at the men in the front seat. Jonathan was caught up in a guessing game, while O'Connell remained stubbornly silent to his prodding, a crooked smirk inevitably lighting his face.

"Well, I don't know much about all this crap," she sighed, "but Meela makes more money than any other girl Ghazi has."

Ardeth closed his eyes for a moment. "It is...hard for me to comprehend."

Gretchen couldn't help a snicker. "No, it's not. Money's everything to most everybody."

He turned his head to stare at her, a burning behind his eyes that almost frightened her. "The woman is tortured by the soul of Anck-su-namun! If she does not lose her mind, she will eventually succumb to her will. It is either cruel or dangerous to keep her alive!"

The prostitute awkwardly cleared her throat in the sudden silence; O'Connell and Jonathan had stopped, interrupted and unnerved by Ardeth's exclamation. Gretchen glanced up at them, hoping they would resume their bickering. Another quiet moment later, she managed to speak:

"Look, I know you fellas are noble and whatever, but anybody--literally, _anybody_--can be bought. I don't know what trump card Ghazi has, but it's in _his _best interests for Meela to be alive, and she is."

Ardeth's deep eyes bored into hers, and something awake and alive in her soul refused to let her look away. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Just tell me, already," Jonathan grumbled. O'Connell calmly assured him that he'd see, soon enough. The usual hum of their conversation returned again.

Ardeth's stare persisted; she didn't dare blink.

"There is more to this world than money," he told her firmly.

She swallowed hard. "Like what?" she whispered, her voice weak in her throat.

His Adam's apple jerked uncomfortably, and something sad glinted in the darkness of his eyes. He took an uncertain breath, "How empty you must be."

Gretchen blinked rapidly, glancing away from him. The morning light was blazing now, the desert shimmering under the not-yet hot sun, and everything felt like it ought to be normal. She tried to shake the haunted feeling of Ardeth's words, but they had struck something in the back of her mind that ached. She strained a false smile and stared straight ahead, her eyes suddenly catching on something in the distance. Her eyes widened.

"You have got to be kidding."

O'Connell looked over his shoulder, a helpless smile on his face and a boyish glint in his eye. "You got any better ideas?"

Jonathan squinted at the sign and let out a groan. "The _airfield?"_

Gretchen just shook her head. O'Connell raised his eyebrows. "Don't suppose you know Winston."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah."

Jonathan tried to contain a chuckle. "Oh, really?"

Gretchen didn't say anything as they pulled closer, the car slowing to a stop as two native boys lifted a feeble barrier and allowed them through.


	25. A Playboy's Luck

****

A Playboy's Luck

"Mornin', Winston!"

Gretchen squinted through the harsh sunlight, catching a glimpse of the ruddy and plump airman lounging beneath an umbrella with his cup of Earl Grey, a phonograph playing a scratchy rendition of some song she couldn't understand. She saw him shield his eyes and watched a smile stretch his lips open. He rose to his feet to shake O'Connell's hand and then introduced himself to Ardeth. When he caught sight of her, something like vague recognition glittered in his eyes.

"Well!" he exclaimed jovially, "Hullo, there!"

Jonathan's head whipped around to stare at her in surprise. She smiled, tolerating a wet kiss from Winston on her cheek. O'Connell mercifully interceded:

"Look, Winston, we've got trouble."

The pilot straightened in his chair immediately, gazing at the American with wide, interested eyes. As O'Connell began to recount the surreal events of the past few days, Jonathan gave Gretchen an impatient nudge.

"He doesn't seem to know you," he whispered. She sighed, leaning closer to his ear.

"Well, it's not like I slept with him," she snorted under her breath.

Jonathan's visible surprise was remotely offensive.

"I listened to him babble on for a few hours," she explained, bristling a little. "I got a few free drinks out of the deal, so..."

Jonathan nodded his agreement, opening his mouth to say something else. Winston's voice quickly interceded:

"So what has your little problem got to do with His Majesty's Royal Air Corps?"

O'Connell shook his head. "Not a damn thing."

The admission brightened the British man's countanance considerably. He put his teacup down, "Is it dangerous?"

Gretchen snickered under her breath, catching a glimpse of Ardeth's face. The desert warrior looked puzzled as O'Connell bluntly assured the pilot that he probably wouldn't live through their present catastrophe. He took an uneasy step nearer to her, watching a strange hope flicker in Winston's gaze. His breath was hot against her ear:

"Is this man crazy?"

Winston hopped to his feet, saluting them grandly. "Very well! You've found the man for the job!"

Gretchen glanced at Ardeth and shrugged, figuring the pilot's enthusiastic compliance answered his question. The short, plump man very nearly skipped to his sorry assortment of planes, O'Connell striding easily beside him. The American glanced back at the three of them and winked.

"I don't believe we have a craft large enough for everyone," Winston was saying, slowing to a stop in front of one plane. "What did you have in mind, O'Connell?"

"Something with a gun," he answered quickly, running his hand along the length of the aircraft.

The aging pilot hummed thoughtfully, tugging on the wing. "We could strap a man on each side--"

"Excuse me," Jonathan put in. _"What?"_

Winston went on, unheeded, "I'd fly it, of course, and you could man the gun..."

He eyed Gretchen. "You're the problem, deary."

She shook her head, "No problem. I don't have to go."

"You're going," O'Connell commanded. She turned her eyes to his in confusion, but his expression was set. "For whatever reason, this...mummy guy seems to like you, and somebody has to kill this thing if we all fail."

Gretchen opened her mouth to protest, but the dark look in his eye would not be contended with. He turned his gaze sharply to the plane, a thoughtful frown set in his mouth. He glanced at her again, studiously raking over her body. Her breath caught in her throat at his invasive gaze, and she found herself wondering if he remembered the night he had bought her, if he was recalling the way she had looked then, the way she--

"I bet she could fit with me."

So that was all. She glared at the back seat of the plane and grimaced. "Come on, I'm not_ that _skinny."

O'Connell shrugged, something between optimism and irritation glinting in his eyes. "It'll be tight."

Jonathan couldn't contain a loud fit of laughter; fifteen minutes later, he was having trouble finding anything to smile about. Tied securely to the wing of Winston's plane, he pouted at the ground, grumbling indiscernable curses under his breath. Gretchen would have laughed at him, but she was finding her own situation much too frustrating._ It'll be tight,_ O'Connell said. Well, _that _was certainly an understatement. They were both squeezed into the seat intended for a single man, her legs crushed somewhere between the metal machinery and the Legionnaire's body. They sat shoulder to shoulder, his hands gripped tightly around the Thompson attatchment. Gretchen didn't know what to do with her arms; she decided to keep them as far away from interference as possible.

As the engine sputtered with ignition, Gretchen felt her her heart rattling in her chest. Nausea crawled wickedly up from her stomach, and she clenched her jaw in determined rebellion. She couldn't vomit--she _couldn't._ Not with Jonathan strapped onto the wing on her side, and not with O'Connell's faith in her survival. She tried to remind herself that it could be worse, it could be worse, it could be worse, it could be--

But the plane was bouncing down the uneven runway, the nose tilting slowly but certainly upwards. She found her body leaning back with the motion of the machine, and all at once the white, blazing sun was glaring angrily at her, telling her to keep her feet on the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut against the brilliant light.

Gretchen wasn't aware that she had been holding her breath until the plane gently leveled. She reluctantly opened her eyes and felt a strangely calming anticipation consume her. The wind whistled angrily past her ears and tugged at her hair, but the sensation of being airborne gave her such a free feeling that she could not be afraid. All around her was blue--fantastic and dreamlike and extraordinary and pure, and she suddenly knew where O'Connell's eyes had come from. Below, the desert carried on ignorantly; and even though she was crushed against her fellow American, she felt untouchable and priceless. The world below couldn't grope for her with its dirty fingers or tempt her with its lifeless promises. She was above the ground, above the dirt, above the sand, and it would never, ever...

A wide, twisting torrent of sand loomed in the distance, and Winston shouted something about its remarkable size. Her stomach dropped again, and Gretchen was reminded that she wasn't so high that the grime of the world could not touch her. She was a whore. And even if, from that day on, she never even so much as looked at a man, she would never be able to climb out of the rotting hole that was her past.

But the twister dropped suddenly, unnaturally to the sand, and an uneasiness quickly replaced her personal woes. As if on command, an enormous cloud rose up from the ground, growing to an impossible height in front of them. Her mouth gaped at the wall of sand, twisting her head to look at O'Connell, to confirm the wonder in front of them. His hands tightened on the gun, and she turned her gaze back to the phenomenon, too frightened to close her eyes.

A dark, smirking face formed from the granules, and her mind went black with disbelief. The moments whirred with confusion and danger and desperation, the wind tearing past her face and the frequent pops of the machine gun competing with Jonathan's screams. She forced her mouth to close, gritting her teeth against the desire to cry. Her hands tightened into fists, and suddenly everything was black.

* * *

"Hey...hey!"

A persistent voice was pulling her from her unconscious state. Gretchen's eyes fluttered open, meeting O'Connell's bright, remotely frightened eyes. The air smelled like smoke and gasoline, and she immediately realized that they were no longer in the air. When she turned her head to see what was the matter, sand slipped out of her hair and trickled over her face; she felt dusty and dry, and her throat was parched and burning. She tried to swallow, but the action sent her into a fit of coughing and hacking.

"Hey," his voice was a little more tender this time, his hand reaching up to gently cup her face. "Look, we gotta get you out of here."

Her brow furrowed dazedly. "What...?"

She stared at him, noticing that he was not squeezed into the passenger seat anymore. Before she could question any further, his arms were around her torso, and he was lifting her out of the plane. He carried her a few yards away before placing her gingerly on the ground. She could feel his eyes working over her body, but she was too distracted by the scene in front of her to notice.

The plane was smashed into the sand, bits and giant pieces of it sprawled about. Ardeth glanced up from the front of the craft in dismay.

"He's dead."

O'Connell gripped her hand lightly, flexing it on her wrist. She glanced at him in confusion.

"Anything feel like it's broken?"

She ran her tongue over her lips, shaking her head numbly. An odd crunching noise caught Ardeth's attention, and he stumbled back from the plane. Jonathan tottered along behind him. Slowly, the plane began to sink into the sand. Somebody was laying his hand on her shoulder, but her mind was too hazy to think about turning to see who it was.

"It's a shame...but it's what he wanted."

O'Connell raised his hand in a salute. And, despite herself, Gretchen did a quick sign of the cross and mumbled what she could remember of the "Hail, Mary."


	26. A Harlot's Welcome

_Author's Note: I need to credit** Lucky Fannah** with the idea for this scene; when she told me about it, I was wary at first that it wasn't within Gretchen's character. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought it could be achieved in a very Gretchen-y way. So, anyway, thanks for the idea! I hope you enjoy it!_

**

* * *

**

**A Harlot's Welcome**

"He has most certainly taken her to the Chamber of Anubis."

Ardeth was explaining as he strode quickly through the ruins, his eyes flitting over each building in a determined search. Helpless in their ignorance, his three companions followed behind him, stealing puzzled glances behind his back. Gretchen knew they had to trust the Med-Jai to be knowledgable on the present subject, but, to be honest, she was having trouble putting her life in his hands. For someone whose lifelong duty it was to keep Imhotep from being reborn, he hadn't exactly done everything in his power to prevent that from happening. Granted, his moral stumbling block with killing was the only reason she was alive right now.

Well, that and Anck-su-namun. But she really didn't want to trouble herself with accrediting spirits.

"The ancient Med-Jai kept a secret entrance into the Chamber--"

"Hey, I've heard of that!" Jonathan piped up, a wide, excited grin plastered across his face. Ardeth raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"You have?"

The Englishman nodded empathically. "Well, of course! You chaps call it the 'Doorway to Hell,' as I recall."

O'Connell wet his lips, his head declining thoughtfully. "It's what everybody comes here looking for..."

"Leads right to the treasure room," Jonathan supplied happily.

Ardeth slowed to a stop in front of a building, glancing back at Jonathan with a hard stare. "It leads _through_ the treasure room."

"Oh, well...prepositions," the Englishman muttered under his breath.

Gretchen cleared her throat, feeling phlem rattling in it. She sighed darkly; it seemed her short period of health was slipping to an end. She supposed it was only a matter of time; since the Creature's resurrection, she'd barely eaten and slept even less. She was falling back into her old routines, it seemed. Forcing that thought from her head, she motioned towards the building they stood in front of.

"So what's this?"

Ardeth's hand brushed the side of the crumbling building. "This...is the doorway to the Doorway," he explained with a wry smile. He led them through the wide threshhold, the sun's beams filling the first several yards of the hallway. Gretchen took a breath, remembering her last trip into the ruins, and her recent blackout on the plane. Her lungs suddenly felt very tight, but she told herself that her own paranoia was causing it. She gasped in another draught of air through her mouth and quickened her steps behind them. Watching their Med-Jai leader grasp two torches from a wall sconce didn't exactly bring comfort, though.

They did not make it far enough down the hallway to light the torches, however. A large, imposing wall of rocks effectively cut them off. O'Connell's irritated sigh filled their cramped space.

"Well--"

But Ardeth obediently crouched down, starting to remove the heavy barriers. Jonathan groaned loudly.

"Can't we just...blow it open?"

O'Connell bent down to shove a particularly large rock from the mound. "This could be a cave-in," he explained through difficult breaths. "If we blow it up, we might bring the whole ceiling down on us."

Jonathan gulped, taking a step back from them. "Oh...well, then. Carry on."

Gretchen awkwardly inched towards the pile, grasping one of the smaller stones. With a grunting effort, she managed to pull it from the rest, sending a rain of pebbles skittering over her. As O'Connell pushed another formidble rock out of the way, he shot Jonathan an aggrivated glance.

"You wanna tell me why you're standing around while the _girl_ does the work?"

But the Englishman was too distracted to take offense.

"Hey, gents, come have a look at this."

Gretchen straightened immediately, already tired of their laborious task. She took a few steps towards Jonathan, not particularly interested in his find, but liking the excuse to leave the pile. O'Connell and Ardeth didn't even bother to glance in Jonathan's direction.

The Englishman was enchanted with a little, blue stone bug in his palm. She snorted, letting him know that his find wasn't exactly impressive. She didn't have a chance to voice her low opinion of the carving, however, when its shimmering shell cracked open. A skittering black something squirmed from its encasement and plunged into Jonathan's flesh. His pained screams urgently caught their companions' attention. Gretchen jumped away from him with a yelp, watching helplessly as Ardeth and O'Connell jumped to his aid.

"Do something! Do something!" Jonathan shouted desperately. The men glanced at each other, nodding mutually. The Med-Jai took a firm hold of Jonathan's shoulders, anchoring him against his body. O'Connell pursed his lips, watching the strange mound burrowing in his arm, his skin stretching to compensate for its movement. In a quick, fluid motion, the American withdrew a weapon and flicked the blade into usage. Jonathan's eyes widened at the gleaming article. "Not that! Not that!"

But O'Connell dug the blade into his arm with deft precision, cutting off the beetle's path and plucking it from Jonathan's body. It landed on the sand with a screetch, and before Gretchen had a moment to react, it burst into smoke. She glanced up to see O'Connell's gun still trained on the spot where it had been.

"You think they heard that?" he breathed. Ardeth shrugged, his hands now gripped around Jonathan's bleeding arms. His dark gaze flashed to Gretchen.

"Can you take care of this?"

The steady stream of glistening red made her stomach rock sickeningly. She gulped, shaking her head.

Ardeth let out a sigh, jerking his head at the pile. "It will go faster if I work on that."

Gretchen nodded, but her eyes were wide with apparent fear. "I can't...I just can't--"

But she caught Jonathan's glazed glance, and heard his whispered, _"Please..."_

For a split second, she saw Meela in her mind, chained to the chair, crying out the same word--

With a grimace, she pulled Evelyn's blouse from her body and extended it to Jonathan.

Ardeth looked up from the rocks and shook his head again. "You've got to do it. He cannot wrap it tightly enough by himself."

Gritting her teeth, Gretchen took a few steps nearer to Jonathan, staring stubbornly away from his wound. "Don't suppose you have a flask."

He swallowed hard, blinking at the tears in his eyes. "In my...in my coat pocket."

He nodded at the floor, where his jacket had been thrown carelessly. Gretchen bent down, her trembling fingers scouring the linen until she came across a dull, fingerprinted cantene. She grabbed it quickly, twisting the cap off and splashing a torrent of smelling liquor over the cut. Jonathan yelled in pain, and she nervously sputtered a "sorry," turning her attention to the blouse. With a quick jerk, the fabric split down the middle, and she uncertainly began to wrap it around Jonathan's arm.

"It needs to be tighter," he advised quietly. Gretchen glanced at him, her dark eyes helpless as she tried to do his bidding.

"I really have no idea what I'm doing," she whispered nervously.

He half-smiled, catching a glimpse down the sheer slip that was presently serving as her shirt. A little embarrassed by his own antics, he glanced up at her again. "You're doing alright."

Gretchen held his gaze for a moment, her throat contracting with personal anxiety. She shook her head, glancing away. "I just hope it holds up."

He watched her tie the ends of the fabric into a tight knot. Her eyes flitted up to his, surprised at the calm that glimmered back. She'd never known him to be the complacent soldier; she'd come to expect a kind of coward's panic when it came to Jonathan-in-danger. But he only looked at her with an expression that might have been satisfied, had he not just had a bug burrowing beneath his skin a moment ago. He opened his mouth to say something, but his gratitude was lost in the loud rumbling of rocks crashing to the ground. They glanced up to meet O'Connell and Ardeth's proud expressions. The dust had barely settled before O'Connell was struggling over the rubble. They climbed awkwardly behind him. Dropping onto the other side of the rocks, Gretchen found herself encompassed in darkness. A match hissed to life, and a moment later, Ardeth's torches provided their humble light. The yellow flame gleamed dully in the reflection of a silver disk, and O'Connell set the aim of his pistol on it. A bullet _dinged_ against the metal, shifting its angle. A flash of white light bounced from the disk, to another and another, filling the room with light.

Gretchen felt her jaw unhinge, and couldn't quite make herself close her mouth again. As O'Connell started down the wide stairs, guns loaded and hammers pulled back, she had to force her feet to move.

The room carried on for an eternity, like a warehouse stocked with gilded merchandise. The entire chamber shimmered, treasure looming around them in golden, untouched glory. The larger statues were dulled with cobwebs, and Gretchen would have wondered how long the stash had gone undisturbed, if she would have been able to comprehend the wealth surrounding her.

And she thought five hundred dollars was a lot.

There was enough here to...to...to do anything. She couldn't even fathom the freedom those precious trinkets could buy. But Jonathan's dazed, inarticulate requests were quickly shut down by O'Connell. The message was clear: victory first, rewards later. Gretchen was wondering whether or not they'd even notice her pocketing a few of the smaller treasure pieces when an odd, unnatural noise caught her attention. She reluctantly jerked her gaze away from the gold, her eyes colliding with the jolting, awkward forms of a handful of mummies.

"Who're these guys?" O'Connell asked, his fingers tightening on his weapons.

"Priests," Ardeth answered. "Imhotep's priests."

Gretchen scoffed nervously. "How can you tell?"

O'Connell raised an eyebrow, taking her arm and jerking her away. A moment later, she realized why. The men opened fire, and she stiffened, uncertain of what to do. Only a moment ago, she would have stood in the crossfire; even if Imhotep had not killed her, there was no telling what a stray bullet could do. Her stomach clenched with the want of self-preservation, and she crept quietly away from the group, crouching behind a glinting statue. She bit down on her lip, waiting for the foray to quiet.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.


	27. A Prince's Loot

**A Prince's Loot**

Gretchen let out a little scream, flinching away from the invasive hand. Shrill, annoying chortles retorted that her fear was in vain; she glanced up and met Beni's amused face. She shot him a glare, leaning around the statue to see what had become of her companions. She was mildly surprised to find that they had left her.

"Looking for someone?" the Hungarian sneered. Gretchen swallowed her pride and pulled herself to her feet.

"Shut up."

His nerve-grating smirk was still slung across his face when she turned to look at him again.

"Come on, Gretchen," he chided in a sing-song tone, "it is not as if you would be much help to them." He laughed cruelly. "I do not think a quickie will save the world."

She only huffed, picking her way around the statue and back to the main pathway. Her brow furrowed at the doorway ahead of her, and she tilted her head to the side in puzzled concentration. They had to have gone this way; there was nowhere else to go. But who knew how many hallways snaked beneath this city...and who knew how many led right into painful traps?

His fingers crept over her shoulders again. Gretchen gasped in surprise; she hadn't heard him sneak up on her. She glanced over her shoulder coldly.

"Would you stop that?"

Beni smiled smugly. "I do not think you want me to."

She rolled her eyes, trying to shrug off his grip. "Well, you're wrong. I want you to get your slimy fucking hands off me!"

He scoffed, his breath warm and remotely damp against her neck. She grimaced, but he pulled her more tightly against him. One of his hands slid down her back, and for the moment it left her body, she thought he might leave her alone. But his arm returned slinkily about her waist, holding a dusty sack.

"What if I give you this?"

Gretchen glanced at it and snorted. "Tempting."

His arm pulled her closer. "What if I give you this to fill with as much treasure as you can fit in it?"

She snatched it out of his hand, her breath hitching with a sudden flow of joy. She turned around to stare at him. "Are you...are you serious?"

Despite his greasy grin, Beni shrugged nonchalantly. "Two hands work faster than one."

Gretchen thought about correcting him, but she was too ecstatic to fret over his inadequacies. As she gazed into his glinting, conniving eyes, though, her smile soured.

"And what's the catch?"

He laughed dismissively. "There is no catch--"

Her frown cut him off. "You always have a catch."

Beni's mouth gaped a little, offended. "You do not trust me?"

"No," she retorted simply. "I know how you work. And I don't want to wake up alone in the middle of the desert tomorrow morning."

He sighed, leaning down to pick up a jeweled crocodile statuette. "Then you will have to be worth keeping around."

Gretchen's jaw dropped a little. She watched him shove the trinket into another bag on his shoulder and turn his attention to something else. His eyes darted up to her expectantly.

"You can start by filling that sack."

Her teeth clenched as she bent over and examined the treasure on the floor. After perusing a few exceptionally sparkly items and stuffing them in her sack, she turned to look at him again.

"So what are you thinking...then?"

Beni let out a thoughtful _hmm,_ tossing a few more ancient relics into his bag. "I am thinking that, by tomorrow morning, O'Connell will be dead, a mummy will rule the world, and I will be the richest man in history."

Gretchen swallowed, throwing a gilded hippopotamus in with her loot. "And you're okay with that?"

He snickered. "Aren't you?"

Her hand paused just above a strange, black stone falcon. She hadn't expected him to turn the question on her. She was certain, up until he spoke, that the opposite answer was the obvious one.

"Come on, Gretchen," he reasoned. "Who cares who rules the world? Good people and bad people are kings, and they still never changed the fact that I have starved my whole life."

She bit her lip, overlooking the falcon to grab a gold headdress. It felt safer, somehow. "So you don't think it'll be any different, if Imhotep wins?"

"It _will_ be different," he assured her. "I will be rich."

Gretchen stood up, cracking her back. "Will you be happy?"

He glanced up at her, catching her puzzled dark eyes. Holding up a diamond-studded bracelet, he gave her a greedy grin. "I think so, yes!"

She nodded slowly, bending down to gather more treasure, but his gaze stayed fixed on her.

"What is the matter with you, anyway?" he demanded tersely. "Don't you understand? You will be a rich woman, and wear expensive clothes and go anywhere. With money, no one will care that you are a tramp and I am a thief. You will be a lady--"

"If I'm worth it," she reminded sharply.

He shrugged, allowing the comment. "With so much money, no one will know better."

Gretchen shook her head. "No, I mean--you said I'll have to be 'worth keeping around' if I don't want you to dump me off in the middle of the night. So what do you mean?"

He cocked his head to the side, giving her an odd look. "Did Imhotep suck out your brain? What do you _think_ it means?"

She swallowed, tossing a few rings into the sack. "This is gonna take an awful lot of payback sex."

Gretchen didn't have to look at Beni to know he was smirking grimly. "Yes..."

Something about his tone told her to look up. His impish grin was waiting for her. "You said you would marry me if I had the money."

"God," she sighed irritably. "Why the hell do you want to marry me so bad?"

He shrugged with arrogant nonchalance. "Because I mean so much to you."

Gretchen rolled her eyes. "In your dreams. You were just another man."

Beni straightened, resting his hands on his hips argumentatively. "Then why did you come to me when you needed a place to stay? Why didn't you call on your good friend Jon Carnahan? I am sure his house has more room--less cockroaches, too. And--how lucky for you!--he would probably pass out drunk before you ever had to fuck him!"

She turned away, trying to concentrate on fitting more treasure into the almost-full bag. "You're such an asshole," she spat bitterly.

"Perhaps," he countered evenly. "But I have been _here,_ in this goddamn desert, living like a rat--just like you. And I know what nobody else knows...I know what nobody else understands."

His gaze beseeched her, but she only stared at him, confused. His eyes bugged, as if the answer was too obvious:

"That we have lived in hell all this time!" He took a few, aggitated steps nearer to her. "Do you think any other man could forgive you for being a whore, Gretchen? Nobody else knows what it was like here. Nobody knows what it does to you, like I do."

Gretchen swallowed, his words sending stings of pain shooting through her body. Maybe he was right. She remembered trying to talk to the Americans on the way to Hamunaptra, and the way they so bluntly revealed that her culture back home had gone on callously without her. She remembered O'Connell, forfeiting self-preservation because he owed it to Evelyn, and Ardeth's lofty ideals about the Med-Jai. She remembered Jonathan telling her that he "fancied" her, and something gaped wide and lonely inside her. They didn't know--_couldn't_ know--what her situation was like. And even if they could sympathize with what had happened...they could never understand why. Even O'Connell, who had paid his dues to the streets as well, could never comprehend the weakness, helplessness, the surrender. She blinked hard a few times, looking at him again.

He wasn't much, but he was the only one who knew...who really _knew..._

Suddenly, she found herself too quickly distracted by the glittering golden mounds that surrounded him. A slow smile began to slither up the sides of her mouth, and it suddenly didn't matter if he was right or not. If he was so convinced of their comraderie, then he wouldn't desert her in the night. Once they were back in Cairo...well, it wasn't as if she'd never screwed a man for money before. Her stomach felt sick for a moment; Ardeth's words echoed in her head. _How empty you must be._ She shook her head, trying to quiet his voice. With a wry smile that didn't quite make it to her eyes, she turned to pick up a final gleaming something, being sure that her humble cleavage was in his line of vision. She gave him a flirtacious wink, knowing that he would not have been worth the effort a week ago.

"So do I get a ring or what?"

"That's the girl I know," he muttered, not quite smiling. When her expression persisted, Beni's mouth jerked distastefully. He glanced over the treasure beside him, roughly digging out an anonymous glint of jewelry.

"Here." He called just before tossing it to her. "You are starting early with this...what's the word? Asking for money?"

Gretchen didn't respond, shoving the ring over her knuckle and glanced over it. "How'd you manage to find the _only_ silver one?"

He scoffed, attempting to haul his sack onto his shoulder. Its weight nearly toppled him, and he quickly pushed it off of his body. The treasure clinked softly within its swollen cloth pouch as it landed on the sand with a thud. Taking a ragged breath, Beni resolved to drag it towards the doorway Gretchen and the others had entered.

"Come on," he grunted. "When we get back to Cairo, we'll hire diggers."

The very idea of being able to hire somebody to do anything sparked excitement within the prostitute. _Ex-prostitute,_ she thought with satisfaction. But as she gripped her own bag and started to pull it along behind Beni, she couldn't help looking up and catching a glimpse of his gaunt, sickly form. She would be sleeping with him for money...and only for money...which probably still meant she was selling herself. But...her stomach kept twisting uneasily--and for what? Beni was right. The chances of O'Connell destroying the mummy were slim to impossible, and even if he did--the Hungarian con was going to be one of the wealthiest men in the world. Who would she rather sleep with?

And...and it wasn't like she would be sleeping with him much, anyway. It wouldn't take long for him to realize that dozens of more beautiful girls would be more than happy to accomodate him. He'd be too busy with infidelity to waste much effort on her. In less than a month, it would certainly be just her and the money, and...whatever she wanted. Gretchen had been so deprived for so long that she wasn't sure what would make her happy, but she would soon have the funds to find out.

Somehow, that thought wasn't nearly as satisfying as she thought it would be. Glancing at the glittering contents of her bag, something inside of her began to ache.

"You are awfully quiet," Beni commented suddenly.

Gretchen looked up, surprised to see the rubble from their previous barrier so near.

"Yeah," she breathed. Dragging the treasure was considerably more strenuous than her usual activities, and she could feel sweat beading on the back of her neck and the sides of her face. Her partner let go of his sack, straightening to his full height.

"I think if I get on one side of the rocks, you can pass the bags to me."

Gretchen nodded complacently. As he stumbled over the stones, she glanced again at the ring on her hand. The delicate silver band was woven with a scaly pattern, the yellowish stone set in a cobra's jaws. She was too concerned about how she was going to lift their heavy loot to find humor in the jewelry.

After a great deal of straining and cursing, the sacks made it over the barrier. Gretchen's skin was damp and Beni smelled, but they struggled the remaining few yards out of the ruins. The sun blazed on her face, but she forced a smile. After five years...well, to be honest, nearly twenty-three years of nothing, she had something.

Then why did it feel like so little?

The white hot light caught hold of the precious metal in her sack, a blinding beam dazzling her eyes for a moment. Blinking away the dots in her vision, she noticed Beni was on his way towards a camel. She couldn't help laughing out loud as her "fiancé" tugged on the halter of a particularly stubborn beast. God knew how many thousands of years, and she and Beni--of _all _people--were about to make off with the treasures of Hamunaptra. If she had not survived the same filthy streets he had, she would have found the situation unjust.

The camel finally heeded to Beni, and he led it over to her with something like irritation in his eyes. But, Gretchen supposed, new millionaires rarely stay irritated for long. He held out the rein to her, eyes squinted against the sun.

"Keep it steady. I will load the treasure."

She watched him struggle with the bags curiously, tilting her head to the side. "Where do you want to get married?"

"I don't care," he grunted, slamming the burden onto the animal's back. With a ruthless breath, he reached for the other one. "Some place quick. You cannot wear white, anyway."

Gretchen rolled her eyes, dodging out of the way as the camel shot a wad of spit at the ground. Beni heaved the second bag up, smiling in weary satisfaction.

"Are you ready?" she asked. But his eyes were far-off, gazing at the nearby entrance to the ruins. He licked his lips, turning back to the camel and unbuckling its saddlebag. "Beni--"

"I'm getting more," he told her mechanically. "Come on."

She shook her head. "I'm beat. I'll wait out here with the camel...make sure he doesn't wander off."

Beni looked at her carefully, something strange and unreadable glinting in his eyes. "You will not wander off with him?"

Gretchen laughed. "Come on. I don't know how to ride these things."

He nodded slowly, glancing at the sand. "Alright."

His feet didn't move. His eyes kept looking her over, suspicious, almost...or skeptical. He jerked his head at her, and kind of smiled. "Kiss me."

With a strange, dead feeling in her heart, she released the reins, closing the space between them. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his body and forcing his mouth against hers. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, and his teeth scraped against her lips, inciting a little wimper in the back of her throat. Just as she started to fold her arms behind his head, a sharp, fierce pain ripped through her thigh. He released her, allowed her to tumble to the ground screaming. He glanced at her once as he ran back into the ruins.

Gretchen's fingers found the stinging point in her leg and gasped in shock. Blood was smeared over her trembling digits, splattered the sand around her...

And bathed the bullet that glinted murderously in the heat.


	28. An American Coward and a MedJai Warrior

**An American Coward and a Med-Jai Warrior**

That son of a _bitch._

Gretchen's entire body trembled with pain and fear and anger. She lay on her back, afraid to move. She knew she should look at the wound--use her clumbsy and limited medical knowledge to consider how serious it was. But she didn't want to see it.

She tried to console herself with the fact that the bullet--or, at least, most of it--was not inside of her. And she knew that a shot to her thigh probably wouldn't kill her. But she was still laying _here_, in sand drenched in her own blood, with the brilliant sun pouring a merciless flow of heat over her body. She wasn't sure how, considering her state, but Gretchen was determined to kill that bastard when he got back.

Taking a deep breath, she reached down to the skirt and gripped the fabric in her hands. She told herself she had to pull it up; she _had _to look at the wound and go about fixing it somehow. But her fingers just clenched and released the cloth uncertainly. She found herself wondering if Beni was planning to leave her out here. Her chances of ever laying eyes on the money that treasure would bring were looking very slim. Still...he'd shot her Point-blank. He could have aimed anywhere...he could have killed her. So why didn't he?

A faint, scuffing sound drew her attention from her puzzle. The noise was growing louder; Gretchen realized someone was walking towards her. Her stomach tightened with rage. That goddamn Hungarian! She had a word or two for_ him--_

"Are you happy now, you bastard?! There's blood everywhere!"

"I can see that," a cool, weary voice told her. Gretchen strained her neck to see who had come, because that accent was most certainly_ not_ Beni's. "And I hope you do not think I did this to you."

A dark shadow fell over her body, but quickly retreated as a darker form knelt down beside her. Her searching eyes collided with Ardeth's deep, sympathetic gaze. "We were worried when we lost you. We thought something bad had happened."

She snorted, but that slight movement sent a shock of pain up from her leg. Her face contorted with a grimace. "You really sent out the search party."

"We were attacked," he told her evenly.

Gretchen sighed, watching him gently pull the hem of her skirt over her thighs. He blinked a few times in embarrassment, not quite looking up at her.

"I'm sorry--"

She would have laughed a little, just to let him know he was doing nothing special, but she was afraid the motion would hurt. With a weak smile, she nodded. "This happens all the time."

His eyes glanced up at her, and something melancholy shone in his black depths. "That does not make it any less invasive."

Gretchen's brow furrowed as she rest her head against the sand again, still unwilling to see the wound in all its grisly glory.

"I do not want to disrespect you," he explained quietly. She heard more than saw him take out his cantene and splash her skin with water. The cool liquid made her shiver, despite the overbearing sun.

"You're being ridiculous," she retorted dismissively, though her throat was tightening with nervousness. It had been so long since someone had cared about insulting or offending her--much less showing respect. And something about that truth almost made her smile, despite the pain. "But thank you...anyway."

He glanced up, but jerked his gaze as quickly back down with a grunt, sopping up the water and blood from her leg with a rag. Gretchen wondered remotely where he had gotten that from. "I don't see any bits of metal. Who did this to you?"

Gretchen closed her eyes against the sun, finding a strange comfort in the way he was tending to her wound. She spat more than said, "Beni."

Ardeth nodded slowly, the pressure of the rag leaving her body. A moment later, she heard fabric ripping. "Why did he shoot you?"

She shrugged, her teeth gritting in anger. "I guess he didn't want me running off with the treasure."

His disgusted sigh pronounced the other man cowardly and inhuman, but he did not speak the words on his mind. His hand slipped beneath her knee, and the unexpected feeling of his calloused digits on her skin made her gasp. He breathed another appology, gently lifting up her leg and resting her calf on his shoulder.

"I need to wrap it up so it stops bleeding," he explained. Gretchen almost smiled.

"This is nothing new for me."

Ardeth grumbled something in Arabic, beginning to wind the strip of cloth around her thigh.

"You shouldn't make jokes like that," he told her gruffly.

Gretchen strained her neck to look at him, but he was focused on his task. "Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

"It's degrading," he returned, frustration tightening in his throat. His words were strained, "No woman should be reduced to that."

She closed her eyes. For some reason, tears were hot against her eyelids. Forcing a little laugh, she tried to keep her voice steady. "I have to joke about it..."

He looked up at her with a strange sense of understanding glinting in his black eyes. "Otherwise you would be dead by now."

Ardeth's gaze retreated back to the wound; he shook his head, tying the ends of the fabric together. "It will hold up until I get you to our camp."

He returned her leg to the sand and smoothed the skirt back into its appropriate place. He extened his hand to her, but she waved it away.

"I can't get up. Not right now."

He stared at her for a moment. "Alright."

Gretchen propped herself up on her elbows, grateful that he blocked the harsh rays of sunlight from her face. "I suppose it's not much use waiting for _him,"_ she sighed, jerking her chin at the ruins.

"He shot you."

She sighed and held up her hand and twisted her wrist, letting the light catch on the ring still curled around her finger.

"I was going to marry him."

Ardeth let out a short, humorless laugh. He looked betwen her hand and the glinting content of the sacks on camel's back; something in his eyes accused her, stabbing her stomach with guilt.

"I don't suppose it was for love."

"No." Gretchen looked down sheepishly, glancing at the camel's glittering cargo. "I thought I loved that."

Something in his dark depths softened. "It can't love you back."

She swallowed, staring away from him. She could feel his gaze persisting against her face, and he knelt down beside her. Shaking her head, she couldn't quite look up at him when she murmured:

"I thought...I guess I thought it could save me, you know...get me out of this life." She glanced up at the bag, and her brow furrowed angrily. Her fingers curled around a handful of sand. "God, it's just so..."

"Empty?"

She met his eyes, and her breath caught a little in the back of her throat. He sat down gently beside her, his hand moving over her knuckles. Her fist relaxed, and the sand seeped out of her palm. He smiled faintly.

"You know, I never...I have never cared much about Imhotep in the stories, but Anck-su-namun..."

She tilted her head at him curiously. He glanced down at their hands. "I believe she was just weary of the emptiness."

Gretchen nodded slowly, unable to prevent the tears from spilling down her cheeks. He reached his other hand slowly up to her face, brushing the hot drops from her skin.

"I was going to take you from Ghazi's that day."

She smiled briefly, shaking her head in confusion. "But you said--"

"I lied," he answered simply. "I saw you, and you were not like the others. I could see life in you, but it was fading fast. I wanted to save you before you were cold and dead like the rest of them."

Gretchen swallowed hard. "Don't overestimate...I mean, you don't know me...at all, really. Maybe I am dead."

His Adam's apple jerked, and he blinked rapidly a few times. His palm cradled her cheek, and his voice was low and husky:

"You're not."

She raked a hand through her dusty, tangled locks, glancing down at her leg. She let out a nervous, sarcastic laugh and shrugged. "Well, not yet."

Ardeth sighed quietly. "Don't be afraid of the past, Gretchen. Sometimes...the old things must die before the new things can start."

She gulped back a sob, another tear sliding down her cheek. "I'm so scared."

His hand slid from her face, to her shoulder. He pulled her gently into his arms, and she let him hold her. "I would...still like to take you."

She jerked her chin up to look at him, her eyes wide. "You don't know anything about me!"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. He started to mumble something about his culture and hers, but she interrupted him. "I don't...you don't understand. I don't belong out here in the desert."

She wanted him to say something, but he remained silent, holding her in his stiff arms. Before she could blurt an apology, the city before them began to tremble, the buildings wavering and toppling into one another loudly. Dust was rising and clouding all around them, and when she looked up to see what Ardeth made of this strange happening, his eyes were far off.


	29. Compassion's Grace

**Compassion's Grace**

"Wait here."

His voice was ravaged by the gusts of air that clawed past her face, and Gretchen did not entirely understand what he had told her until he disentangled his arms from her body and disappeared into the storm.

The wind whistled high and loud in Gretchen's ears. She squinted in the assumed direction of the city, the dust and sand blurring a previous horizon into the abstract. She lifted a hand to her face, trying to shield herself from the pelts of particles. Where had Ardeth gone? And how could he leave her like this? She screamed his name, but the wind tore it to indistinguishable threads.

A camel's baying interrupted her confusion. Her head whipped around, the wind tangling her hair about her face. She could almost make out the animal, kneeling instinctively on the ground. Taking an uneasy breath, she used her hands and good knee to drag herself across the shifting sand. She managed a few yards before collapsing, weak and tired. She lifted her head, but the camel was no longer visible. With a defeated sigh, she lowered her head to the ground, helpless tears starting to well up in her eyes.

He was gone, and now...so was the treasure.

She'd been dragged out to this God-forsaken place with the hope of five hundred dollars, and now she was laying here, just outside of Hamunaptra, with nothing. In the hotel in Fort Brydon, she had three hundred dollars_...if_ some nosy maid hadn't lifted it off the counter, and if she ever made it back to Cairo again. It was all so pathetically worthless. She was in the desert, alone, abandoned, desolate. She'd had it--had so much money just in her reach, but now...

_Now..._

Her stomach clenched. The money was a liar, anyway. It always had been. She thought of that sack she had dragged out of the ruins, the way it strained her back and her mind. _How empty you must be,_ Ardeth had said. She saw every crumpled dollar bill, every handful of change, every dulling glint of jewelry that had been disregarded on her table. And she saw herself, thin and naked and sick disregarded on her dirtied sheets. She wanted to vomit, but she was finished with emptying herself in this damned wretched place. In the midst of the stinging sand and wind, she swore to leave Egypt...

If she didn't die.

The very idea of death sent a sickening shock through her body. She couldn't die. She _wouldn't._ A memory of the ruins flashed through her mind, of the first time she'd gone in there, with Chamberlain, and he was all excited and...and she'd wondered--she'd wondered, if she died, if it would even make a difference. With her face buried in her arms, the wind and sand whipping cruelly over her skin, Gretchen knew the answer, and she would not accept it. Letting out a determined sigh, she pulled herself up on her hands again, struggling..._away,_ wherever away would lead her.

Gretchen crumpled to the ground again, her arms shaking, her leg sore. Damn it! Damn this place and the treasure and the storm and the sand; they were no use, they did nothing but impede her. She looked at her outstretched arm, her gaze slipping to her hand, to the ring. With a frustrated grunt, she tore the thing from her finger, hurling it into the dusty haze. A strange sense of accomplishment filled her as she stared at her naked hand. She didn't need the ring, she didn't need the treasure or Beni. She just needed to survive this desert, this storm, this moment...on her own. There was nothing else she could do, nothing else she could hold on to. But if she died like this, then she really would have been worthless.

Taking a breath, she pulled herself onto her hands yet again, noticing already that the wind was quieting. She could make out the forms of camels just ahead of her--but where that one, precious animal had gone, she had no way to tell. She turned her head, scanning the horizon slowly. The sun gleamed through the clearing air, and her eyes caught a tall, dark form drawing closer to her, leading one of the awkward desert beasts behind. Gretchen pulled herself to a seat wearily, making out the gentle, unreadable face and dark eyes.

He stopped just before her, holding out the rein. She blinked, trying to rub some of the grit and dust from her eyes.

"I'm not dead," she managed hoarsely.

The Med-Jai nodded slowly, his expression even. "I know."

"You left me," she persisted.

He smiled faintly. "Your camel was wandering off."

Gretchen chuckled quietly, but her eyes were somber and puzzled. She stared up at him, ignoring the rope he was extending to her. "The city collapsed, all at once."

Ardeth nodded solemnly. "Someone happened upon Seti's lever."

She shook her head, awestruck. "You guys could've done that the whole time...before anybody even got here. You could've killed us all before we even went into the ruins. You could've...and--and you warned me--that day when I was sick. You didn't have to do that. Why did you?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes caught something just beyond her. Gretchen strained to look over her shoulder, her eyes widening when she saw O'Connell, Evelyn, and Jonathan stumbling towards them. Ardeth held up his hand, his wide, white smile glinting. O'Connell waved back, catching up to them breathlessly. Gretchen stared up at them, amazement lighting her features.

"But--you're alive?" she sputtered.

O'Connell shrugged nonchalantly; Jonathan wiped a trail of sweat from his brow. "Well that's a nice 'how-do-you-do' to those of us that just saved the world--what happened to your leg?"

Gretchen shot him an irritated look, and Ardeth intervened--giving O'Connell an acknowledging nod. "You have earned the respect and gratitude of my people. May Allah smile on you always."

His gaze turned to Gretchen, holding out the rein to her again. "I believe this is yours."

She glanced down at the sand, taking the rope uneasily. Looking up at him again, she bit her lip. "But..."

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced down at her feet. She didn't see his smile fade into an expression she would have found unreadable. Jonathan was looking between the two of them in utter confusion. "What's your big hullabaloo with the camel, anyway? They aren't that wonderful..."

Gretchen rolled her eyes, but was smiling good-humoredly. "Just get on the goddamn camel, Jon."

Ardeth looked at her strangely, but her gaze was confidently decided. With little trouble, he hoisted her up in his arms, ready to seat her behind Jonathan once he managed to climb on. The desert warrior leaned closer to her, whispering into her ear:

"You be sure to get that leg looked at."

She blinked, tilting her head to the side in confusion. "But...I thought..."

He shook his head. "You are right. You don't belong in the desert."

She looked away, but his eyes prompted her towards O'Connell and Evelyn, and she forced an understanding smile. Caught up in their own embrace, staring blindly into the fantasy worlds of each other's eyes, Gretchen felt her heart wincing. That endless, sweet, impossible blue was not meant for her. She swallowed hard as Ardeth gently settled her behind Jonathan in the saddle. What was he trying to tell her? Why had he wanted her to see them like that?

"Are you two about finished?" Jonathan demanded grumpily. "It's near time we start back to Cairo," he paused to huff, "_completely_ empty-handed."

Ardeth patted the camel's rump, looking up at Gretchen. "I hope you find what you are searching for."

She smiled sadly, watching him stride away. When she faced forward again, O'Connell was holding a camel steady as Evelyn climbed on. He pulled himself up behind her, planting a kiss on her cheek. As the camels lurched to a lazy walk, Gretchen breathed a sigh, resting her chin on Jonathan's shoulder.

"Do you want to go somewhere? When we get back to Cairo?"

He snorted irritably. "Where do you suggest? The King's Casbah, perhaps? I don't have money for much else."

Her shoulders lifted and fell nonchalantly. "I don't know. Italy, New York, London..."

Jonathan laughed, but he was hardly in good humor. "Come on, love. I don't exactly have the money for all _that--"_

"Hm," she breathed benignly. "And what if I do?"

His head whipped around to stare at her, eyes wide with startlement and excitement. A grin began to creep up the sides of his face. "You little devil!"

Gretchen smiled, and he shook his head in wonder. "You did, didn't you?"

"Well...Beni did. I kind of helped, but...I don't think I was getting much out of the deal."

His eyes darted to O'Connell and Evelyn again, and he nervously ran his tongue over his lips. "I don't suppose we have to share it, do we?"

"Yes, you do," the Legionnaire called over his shoulder.

Jonathan winced, but his expression was soon replaced with a joyous smile. Gretchen could feel herself smiling, too. She saw O'Connell lean in to kiss Evelyn again, and her happy expression faded. Not really caring to watch their displays of affection, she found herself turning to glance over her shoulder at the crumbled ruins they were leaving. It didn't seem so eerie as before; it simply looked broken and askew and powerless--a mess of helter-skelter somethings thrown about like a trash heap or a whore's grave.

And maybe that's just what it was.


	30. Epilogue

_Author's Note: Well! I'm not going to lie, the only reason I wrote this epilogue was to draw attention to the revisions I made to the story. Now, of course, as the author I would LOVE it if all of you re-read the entire story and gave me comments along the way. As a reader who also has a life, I know most of you won't have the time or desire to do that. So I thought I'd make it simpler for those of you who have other things to do! If you want to look at the biggest revisions, check out:_

_**Ch. 8: Three Americans and a Pompous Professor  
Ch. 12: Three Americans and a Booby Trap  
Ch. 13: Ardeth's Warning  
Ch. 15: Gretchen's Task  
Ch. 18: Fool's Reciprocity  
Ch. 19: Chance's Cruelty  
Ch. 20: Three Americans and Some Guy Named Imhotep** (probably the biggest changes)  
**Ch. 23: Death's Advantages** (also major)  
**Ch. 24: Two Americans and a Yellow Car  
Ch. 27: A Prince's Loot  
Ch. 28: An American Coward and a Med-Jai Warrior  
Ch. 29: Compassion's Grace**_

_I will say that none of the changes, except for Ch. 20 and 23, are extremely drastic. But they do make a difference in Gretchen's character development, and her relationships with Ardeth, Rick, Beni and Jonathan._

_As always, I appreciate your feedback, so if you do check out the changes, drop me a line! Love it, hate it, don't care--I like to know!_

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Wake me up when we're in Cairo," Jonathan mumbled, slouching in the saddle. Gretchen snorted.

"How am I supposed to keep this thing in line if it starts to wander off?"

His shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. "Oh...it'll just...follow along after O'Connell's."

She started to protest, but he interrupted her with a yawn. Breathing a sigh, Gretchen's eyes gazed up into the inky sky surrounding them. The desert night was a little warmer than usual, and the moon above her head seemed whiter than normal. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilted her head up and let the night consume her. Her entire being was so focused on the bedazzled unknown that she didn't notice the thoughtful gaze on her face.

"You look really..."

The voice startled her, and her head whipped around to catch O'Connell's eyes in the darkness. He winced a little at her surprise, smiling apologetically.

"I'm sorry."

She swallowed, shaking her head. "No, it's okay." She took a breath, trying to steady her racing heart. "What were you going to say?"

He cleared his throat and looked at his arms around Evelyn's sleeping form. "I was just going to say you look really different."

Gretchen frowned. "What's that mean?"

He shrugged. "Sorry--that sounded kind of bad. Just...with the moon and your hair kind of like that...you look really pretty." He glanced down. "You know, happy."

She smiled at him, hoping the dark would hide her flushed cheeks. "I think...I think I am happy."

O'Connell's lopsided grin brightened his face, and his arms tightened around Evelyn.

"I think I am, too."


End file.
